


Holiday

by roughmagic



Series: A SINCERE EFFORT [1]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Action, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Complete, Espionage, Fake Marriage, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Light Angst, Light-Hearted, Original Character(s), Other, Pining, Reader-Insert, Romance, Slow Build, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2018-08-13 13:15:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7978018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roughmagic/pseuds/roughmagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Your job is to keep him safe and get him back in one piece. We don’t anticipate there’ll be anyone specifically gunning for him, but if word gets out… well. Might be a ‘working vacation,’ for you.” </p><p> </p><p>Kaz/Reader</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day Zero

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a multi-chaptered fic in a very long time! I'm looking forward to trying my best! The rating and tags will be updated accordingly, depending on how and where things go.

You should’ve been more on edge, but you were pretty sure you knew what the debriefing was about. Glacier Harrier had squealed on your secret garden of aloe plants in the hedgehog enclosure and now Ocelot was going to either bust you down to E rank or have you drawn and quartered for siphoning resources. What a thing to die for. Aloe in the hedgehog house. 

Admittedly, it wasn’t like your career with the Diamond Dogs had been particularly long and glorious before that. You were a peculiarly average kind of Diamond Dog, but you thought you were friendly. Reasonably competent, maybe not the kind of bloodthirsty killer who’d rise in the ranks very fast, but it takes all kinds to build a nation. You didn’t have any enemies, and DD liked you, so life was honestly pretty good. 

It’s only when the door opens to the conference room and the Boss is there that you think to be nervous.

The two of them look imposing, sitting at the table. There’s an unmarked folder in front of them, and a single chair on the side opposite them. You have a feeling it’s meant for you, but you hadn’t gotten through Ocelot’s training by assuming.

“Boss!” You salute, striving for parade ground best. _The sunscreen the Med platform hands out is just too weak when you have one of the noon shifts. Me and the guys get sunburned. Hedgehogs aren’t allergic to aloe, I promise._

He’s in the thick of some menus on his iDroid, but he still meets your gaze and nods. You relax from the salute. The Boss is here. You’re not a bad person, he won’t let Ocelot skin you alive. Probably.

“Brass Moth.” The interrogator smiles with everything but his eyes, tone leaning towards conspiratorial for a moment. “Don’t you look nervous.”

You try to smile. “Well, this sort of looks like a disciplinary committee.”

“Quite the opposite, in fact. We’ve picked you out for a mission.” Ocelot taps the folder with a pair of fingers, too casually. “It’ll be fun. Like a vacation.”

The Boss looks up from his iDroid with a finality, putting it away and focusing on you. Suddenly, Ocelot matters less. “Voluntary basis. You can decline if you want.”

“Try me, Boss.” You cut back on a grin, full of the headiness having the chance to do something for him. That proud, dangerous glee is always stronger than any fear. _Anything for you, Boss,_ goes unspoken.

Ocelot lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on your smile, instead twisting the dossier around on the table and sliding it towards you. One boot extends under the table to push the only unoccupied chair out. “You ever done any babysitting, Moth?”

The Boss makes a quiet _tsk_ noise, disapprovingly. “Ocelot.”

“What? You know he’ll fuss about this like a child. Might as well be honest about it.”

You sit, taking the folder and opening it. The first thing that stands out is a passport, then maps of an unfamiliar coastline behind that, glossy photos of an expensive-looking resort-- “Sirs?” 

“Miller’s getting squirrelly. He needs some time away from Mother Base, so the rest of us can breathe for a goddamn minute.” Ocelot folds his arms over his chest, his glower not enough to keep your mouth shut.

“Sir-- Commander Miller is the backbone of Mother Base--”

“Easy,” the Boss says, holding out a hand and silencing you. “We’re not just shipping him off. He’s agreed to go, but he’ll be doing some work there as well. Specifically, meeting with a survivor from MSF who’s been quietly building his own PF.” 

You leaf through the folder, past the hotel brochures until you get to the ID pic of the MSF soldier. “Like Mosquito.”

“Like Mosquito, but this time we’ll have a chance to explain things, before people start getting stupid and taking hostages.” Ocelot’s eyes on you are a physical weight, sharp and a little cold. He seems more on edge than usual, and the thought strikes you that maybe Miller’s vacation is also a vacation for Ocelot, as well.

You have the brief and vivid daydream of yourself hunched under some scrubby bushes in the sand, watching Miller tan himself on the beach. “So… am I surveillance?”

“More like camouflage,” the Boss says, around a cigar. 

“A whole squad tailing him would draw attention,” Ocelot explains, giving the other man a look that keeps him from lighting the cigar in a confined space. “You’ll have a dedicated off-site support team, but on the ground it’ll be just you two.”

The Boss gives him a look. “ _Newlyweds._ ”

Ocelot makes a dismissive noise, waving a hand impatiently. “It’ll explain why they’re never apart.”

Their back and forth patter is so charming that you almost forget to shake yourself out of a sudden daze. “I’m… I’m sorry, sirs, I blanked out and thought I heard something else. Could you go over that again?”

“You’re Miller’s fake spouse.” Ocelot jabs a scarlet finger at the dossier still in your frozen hands. “He’s a paranoid, stupidly rich war profiteer and you’ve married him for love. Obviously his poor health and apparent fortune have no bearing on it.”

“Oh,” you hear yourself say, from a long way off. “That’s all.”

“Your job is to keep him safe and get him back in one piece. We don’t anticipate there’ll be anyone specifically gunning for him, but if word gets out… well. Might be a ‘working vacation,’ for you.” 

There’s a silence that you should probably fill with intelligent questions concerning logistics, secondary goals, known threats, anything that might actually be relevant to the job. Something. Anything. 

You keep staring at the brochure for the hotel. _Secluded enough for a romantic weekend, close enough to Sant Antoni for a walk on the wild side!_ Smiling people. Beaches. 

_Maybe if I confess about the aloe, they’ll put me in the brig._

The Boss clears his throat. “Miller’s tough, but he won’t make your job any harder than it needs to be.”

“Why me?” You blurt, before realizing it sounds like a lament. “I mean-- I’ll do it, but I’m not sure why you would choose me.”

Ocelot gives you a look like you know and you’re just fishing for compliments. Your puzzled expression must convince the Boss otherwise, and he leans back in his chair, arms folded over his chest. “You’re cute.”

“You don’t look like a bodyguard,” Ocelot corrects.

The Boss smiles. “Kaz thinks you’re cute.”

Your jaw drops. “He _what?”_

“Not relevant, Moth,” Ocelot snaps, kicking your chair under the table. “Take the dossier with you, get used to your new identity. The chopper’s leaving tomorrow morning, and you’re on it. Pack a swimsuit.”


	2. Day One

You adore the Boss, and you trust his judgement above all things, but even the tide is late sometimes. Probably. Everything’s wrong once or twice. Blue moons. The truth of it is that Miller definitely doesn’t think you’re cute. You don’t think Miller’s ever thought anything’s cute in his entire life. For all you know, he was probably born with a scowl and a furrowed brow. And a tiny pair of shades. 

You feel like he looks even angrier than usual, already waiting at the helipad despite it being early. The sun rises without any preamble on the ocean, but it’s still gray and blustery out. You’d packed a bag of basics the night before and still woke up hours before launch, just from nerves. What’s worse is part of you knows it’s ridiculous-- Miller’s been decent to you before, he’s patient if he can tell you’re trying, and you’d never been afraid of him before. He could be cranky and had a sour temper more often than not, but admittedly… that had been before now.

Harrier had come to see you off and instead suddenly gives you a hasty goodbye and peels off at the sight of Miller waiting nearby. What a baby. He agreed to take care of the secret aloe while you’re gone, which means it’ll probably be dead when you’re back. 

Why does it feel like you’ll be gone for so long? It’s a week. Seven days. A bunch of hours. And hours are just minutes, really. You shoulder your bag and straighten upright. Miller’s there, greatcoat flapping at the hems, but so is the Boss. It’s a bit early for cigars, so he’s got a mug from the caf full of the paint stripper they pass off as coffee. The white ceramic cup looks like a toy in his hand. 

“Good morning, Boss. Commander Miller.” You salute as you join them near the helipad, taking heart. The Boss is going to see you off, and what could be a better start than that? A better good luck charm? A better portent?

Miller leans on his crutch and his lip curls. “Brass Moth? You’re the one they bullied into this? It figures. You’re too hard to be mad at, so they just use you as a scapegoat. What a plan. It stinks of Ocelot.”

“Oh, my God,” you say, faintly.

The Boss puts a hand on his shoulder, looking vaguely pained on your behalf. “Kaz.”

He all but rounds on him, leaning on the cane and looking annoyed, but not mad. “I just don’t appreciate getting thrown out like this, Boss.” 

“Nobody’s throwing you anywhere. It’s a vacation.”

“I don’t want a vacation. I want to get back to work.”

“But you are!” You say, steeling yourself against the sudden intensity of Miller’s implied gaze turning back to you. “I mean-- the Boss said-- I just-- you’re… you’re meeting an old MSF soldier, right? That’s work!”

Miller’s expression doesn’t change, just long enough for you to feel stupid for having said anything at all. He squints behind the shades, betrayed by some of the tightening above his cheeks. You’ve heard rumors that his eyesight is bad, maybe even worse than he lets on. It strikes you that you’ve never seen him without the shades.

“If something goes wrong, we’ll call you,” the Boss says, finally. He squeezes Miller’s shoulder and takes a few paces away to call in the chopper. 

Miller sighs, loud enough for you to hear it even over the wind and the waves. He looks defeated, like his crutch is the only thing holding him up. 

Pequod arrives with the traditional speed and blustering winds, and you stamp out your anxieties long enough to help him on board, forcing yourself not to think about it. You don’t want to insult him by assuming he needs help, but you’ve seen the Boss help him, but that’s the Boss--

He doesn’t whack you with his crutch, so you chalk that one up to a victory. He sits carefully, looking unrattled by takeoff or the normal creaking and noisiness of the chopper. You’d heard a rumor he was a pilot a long time ago, but it was hard to know. 

Closed in the same space, you find yourself staring. His resting face is fierce, but he looks unhealthy. There’s something tightly drawn about him, like he’s been stretched thin in every conceivable way. Pale, permanently in need of a shave. But still very handsome, in an intense way, like it might turn on you at any moment. 

You shift around, letting yourself stare at your boots. What do you look like to him? 

_Kaz thinks you’re cute._

_Oh, Boss._ You blow out a long, slow sigh. _You could’ve just told me to do it, you didn’t have to make it weird._

“I hope you didn’t pack too much,” Miller says, abruptly. “We’re headed to the Forward Operating Base first. They have luggage waiting there.”

You’re not that surprised, but a little thrown off. The thought of being without anything familiar, not even your sidearm or underwear, is disconcerting. “I guess it makes sense. I’m sure not dressed for a vacation.”

Miller doesn’t answer. He keeps his crutch perpendicular to the deck, upright like a staff. He manages to look like an angry king just sitting there. 

Something like a habit that can’t be ignored keeps chewing at your heels. It’s going to be a long helicopter ride regardless of how the conversation goes, but getting it over sooner rather than later gives you more time to prepare and plan ahead. That’s more important than awkwardness. 

You straighten up and remember that you’re a professional bodyguard on this trip. “Sir, not to be callous, but can I ask some questions about your mobility?”

Miller barks out a laugh, face creased with an intensely controlled bitterness behind his shades. “Ask away.” 

You get the impression that the rudest things you could ever dream up are small fries compared to whatever he thinks about himself. “If we need to move quickly or under fire, what’s the best thing I can do for you?”

He’s quiet for a moment, looking like he swallowed a _Leave me and run._ “Don’t try to carry me, unless you’re a lot stronger than you look.”

“Can you go prone?”

He sneers a little. “Sure. It’s getting up again that’s the hard part.”

“Ah.” You wrack your brains for anything else, but nothing comes up. At least it won’t startle him if you have to ask something else invasive, later. “Thank you for your honesty, sir.”

“You’re one of Ocelot’s, aren’t you?”

You look up from your thoughts at that. “Excuse me, sir?”

“He pulled you out of basic training for a more advanced course. More emphasis on espionage, solo work, specialization.” He isn’t looking at you when he says it, or at least his face isn’t pointed towards you. “It’s in how you talk.”

“He did, sir.” You feel your ears go hot. You don’t like talking about it, it sets you apart from most of your friends. Anything that makes you look better than anyone else makes you uncomfortable, even when everyone knows that there’s no real rhyme or discernible reason as to who ends up in Ocelot’s extra classes. If anything, it probably means he thinks you need more help. That’s your personal theory. “I don’t think he likes me very much, though.”

Miller smiles, lips pulling back from his teeth. “Why, because he assigned you to this?”

You don’t know why, but that gets under your skin more than anything else yet. “The Boss asked me to do this. And I was happy to say yes.” Your chin juts out in defiance, reflexively. “You’re not so terrible as you think, Commander.”

He looks a bit cross for a moment, like he’d been hoping to catch you complaining. 

 

The FOB still smells like new paint and exacting standards when you get there. Everyone seems keyed up to a hundred, saluting smartly and in unison as Miller disembarks from the chopper-- this time, reaching for your arm without hesitation.

There’s some perfunctory greetings and the guy in charge goes over a checklist with Miller as you walk, through the Command Base towards a different helipad. It’s strange to see a place so like Mother Base and yet so completely not. The smell of the sea seems different in some fundamental way, to say nothing of anything else.

Eventually, you’re faced with your new luggage. You hand over your forlorn rucksack and get a promise that it’ll be shipped back to Mother Base, and will be waiting for you when you get home. In its stead you get several matching trunks that you couldn’t possibly carry all by yourself. 

Your wardrobe, as it turns out, is beautiful. 

There’s a procurement aide there to go over everything with you, exchanging a few pieces for those that closer fit your size, and helping you pick out a few outfits for certain things, like dining out or poolside lounging. There’s one for ‘dancing’ that you think must be someone’s mean joke. The price tags are still on everything when you’re left alone to change, and you feel dizzy just thinking about the expense. Then again, no Diamond Dog ever does anything by a half-measure.

You can hear Miller arguing in the other room about whether or not he should be able to keep his sidearm. 

When you rejoin him, it’s at the secondary helipad. Instead of a Blackfoot like the Pequod, this chopper is clearly marketed towards a civilian purchaser, one with more money than sense. It looks weirdly plush inside, and you poke around for a bit, watching your luggage get loaded in. 

Miller arrives, tugging at his collar and looking ruffled, and you find yourself hoping his eyesight isn’t good enough to see the surprise travel across your face. “Oh.”

“What?” He grumbles, reaching for your arm to lever himself up and into the chopper. “Do I look more ridiculous than I feel?”

“No. Not at all, sir.” You climb in after him, letting someone else slide the door shut. He looks quite dapper, actually, lots of clean white cloth. Even the pin holding his shirt’s empty sleeve to his shoulder is gleaming. His crutch has been replaced with a long ivory cane, tipped in gold. He’s shaved, too, the smell of his cologne filling the chopper, not unpleasantly. Not even the same shades remain, now all rich brown and warm rose gold. He looks summery, expensive, stress disguised by money.

“You have to cut that out,” he reminds you, after the chopper’s taken off and you’ve had just enough time to forget what he’s talking about. “Unless you want to draw a certain kind of attention, I suppose.”

He means the reflexive _Sir._ “You’re right…” You trail off, suddenly aware that _Commander_ is just as off limits, if not more. The Boss calls him Kaz, but… that’s the Boss.

His knuckles reflexively tighten and relax in turns on the cane’s curved handle. “Just stick to nicknames until you’re comfortable with the aliases.” 

“Yes… s-sweetheart.” 

Miller’s mouth twists. “Convincing.”

You flush. “You try it, then.”

The edge of angry steel that lies under the surface of his face is only noticeable when it’s gone, and you watch it slowly fade away, just for a moment. “It’s been a long time since I’ve called anyone something like that.”

The sudden glimpse at softness makes you feel embarrassed, even brutish. “You don’t have to, I’m sure just the alias name would be fine--”

“No. You’re right.” He straightens up a little, and flashes you that smile that looks like bared teeth. “I have to get used to married life, dear.”

You laugh, nervously. It makes you uncomfortable to hear him say it like that, like it’s a mean joke. It hits you that this mission could be unpleasant for a whole host of reasons you hadn’t even considered. 

 

The chopper ride is longer than you would’ve liked, and you’re eager to stretch your legs by the end of it. Miller-- Kaz? Darling?-- has kept still through it all, fiddling with his iDroid. Maybe sending secret messages back to the Boss about how much he hates everything. 

You go over the itinerary like a worry stone, repeating the steps until they’re worn smooth. You land in Ibiza, brief car ride to the hotel, check in, get settled, and then the first day is done. You’ve done worse. You’ve done a lot worse, actually. Most people would do this for fun.

The private car is already waiting for you when you touch down, air-conditioned and fragrant leather seats. You take in the countryside in a distracted, fidgety way, bitterly wishing you could appreciate the cheerfully blue waters and scrubbed white countryside houses. Harrier would love it if you took some pictures. Miller chats with the driver about restaurants, and you can hear him testing out civilian conversation patterns. You worry about assassins in the hills, hidden in the wiry green trees. 

The hotel is just as beautiful as the country itself, marble fountain in the lobby, high windows letting in fresh air and sunlight. Vines effortlessly spill perfumed flowers in every color. Miller leans in close to you as you watch the staff unload your mountain of luggage, and you force yourself not to tense up. It takes a moment for you to recognize it as the same kind of gesture that reaching an arm around you might be, and you try to curve into it, desperate not to reject him. 

“Remember who we are,” he murmurs, and you can feel your heart rate slow. He’s right. It’s a mission. You may not have trained for him, but you have trained to do your job, whatever it is. You snake an arm around his waist and force yourself to ignore him drawing back from it.

The concierge greets you with just the right mixture of adoration and obsequiousness, and you rest your cheek against Miller’s shoulder and try to look bored and casual while you scout the exits. Miller talks smoothly, introducing the two of you with your fake names with a beautiful ease. There’s a fullness to his voice that doesn’t seem entirely fake, and you start to suspect maybe the pressure of the situation is letting him flourish. It’s encouraging, and you use the feeling to smile up at him.

Smartly dressed porters follow you two up to your room and unpack your luggage with well-oiled efficiency. Miller tips generously while you sprawl on an overstuffed fainting couch, and they leave quickly. You try not to think about the implications of two travel-weary lovebirds being finally left alone in their hotel room.

As soon as the door clicks shut, your expensive shoes are off and the hunt is on. There are enough paranoid celebrities, dignitaries, and other sundry rich people visiting that they probably take a lot of care in debugging their rooms, but you still know a few places to check. You don’t turn up too much, at least one outdated bug in an air vent and the remains of another smashed one underneath a leg of the bed. Miller complains about the flawless weather while you search, just to keep up the pretense.

His iDroid confirms your thumbs up at the end of the search: no transmitting devices.

Suddenly free to look at the room as a room instead of a trap, you’re almost tired out by the opulence. An enormous, fluffy bed, stylish furniture, all the amenities one could ask for. The fridge is so large as to barely constitute a mini-fridge, and you’re sure you could live off whatever you find in there for a week. 

Unpacking the stash of secret items in the false panels of your luggage, you spread them out over the bed and go through them as Miller watches. Communication links with the offshore support team, sidearms and suppressors, extra cash, flashbangs, a few small and rather wicked looking knives, and bizarrely, one of the Boss’s phantom cigars had made it in as well. 

Working in silence, you stash most of the tools around the room, evenly distributing them in places where you think Miller should be able to get to them quickly, if he needs them. Which he won’t, you remind yourself, gritting your teeth as you wire a flashbang into the inner spoke of a lampshade. Because this is a vacation, things are fine, nobody is out to kill him.

“You wouldn’t be bad on the Security team.” Miller remarks, moving at a slower pace towards the double doors that presumably lead out to the terrace. 

“Think I should request a transfer when we get back?”

“Mm.” The doors open with a sigh instead of a creak, and pleasantly warm breezes roll in almost immediately, stirring the gauzy curtains into gently billowing sails. You let yourself stare at Kaz for a moment, framed by the bright blue sky and those soft clouds. 

He sighs and settles down carefully, even gingerly into one of the luxurious padded chairs on the terrace, expertly positioned to offer both shade and sun. Joining him, you rest your hands on the railing and look out at the sea. It’s a far cry from the dull blue-green expanse that Mother Base inhabits, a ring of aquamarine before it blends into the deeper waters. Within the hotel grounds, there’s a swimming pool just a few shades bluer under the patio, where some impeccably tanned patrons are enjoying the late afternoon crawl towards a cool evening. 

The breeze pushes the familiar sea air against you in a gentle fan and you get a pang of homesickness. 

Miller clears his throat. “Where do you want to eat dinner tonight?” 

You perk up, disproportionately thrilled that he seems to be taking an interest in the trip. “There’s a restaurant downstairs, or someplace local… whatever you’d like!”

He looks suddenly embarrassed, or irritated, and fiddles with his iDroid. “I asked you because I don’t particularly care.”

So much for that. You return to looking out at the countryside. “Room service. We’re supposed to be newlyweds.”

“Fine by me. Order whatever you want, I’m going to check in.”

You leave him tuning in to the support unit out on the patio, and keep an ear on him as you peruse the menu. He sounds happy to be talking to the base, even excited. More genuinely enthused than he had been about anything on the trip. 

Well, fine. You’d just run up the bill with room service and he can find his fun in his own ways. You fake a laugh and some breathlessness when you order down to the kitchen and hope Miller isn’t listening in. Mostly seafood and pasta, which you worry isn’t sexy enough for newlyweds, but it’s the coast. There’s a lot of seafood, and you know it’ll be fresh. There’s always fresh seafood on Mother Base, too. 

He spends the whole evening out there on the patio. Even after news from Mother Base has run out, you catch him listening to the radio, monitoring inter-platform chatter. It strikes you that maybe he isn’t just a micromanaging busybody, and maybe he’s as homesick as you are. Just in a different way. 

Dinner arrives and you answer the door wrapped in one of the spare sheets, just for authenticity. Miller gives you a dour look but says nothing: you’re committed to the facade, and he has to respect it. 

The two of you eat out on the patio and watch the sun go down, and Miller passes on all the news from home. R&D had started development on a new type of arctic camo, presumably out of boredom. An away mission had netted a new slew of volunteers that were currently going through hell week with Ocelot. DD was inconsolable after the Boss misjudged a frisbee throw and forever lost the disc to the ocean. Base development was actually ahead on their construction schedule. Glacier Harrier was discovered trying to steal aloe plants out of the hedgehog enclosure and given extra shifts for disturbing the wildlife. All was generally right with the world. 

It’s pleasant, sitting there with him and knowing you’re both thinking of the same place with the same fondness. Yellow bulbs flicker on down below, wreathing the hotel grounds in strings of lights to match the nearby glitter of Sant Antoni. 

As the light fades, a few hearty stars and planets dot the night sky, but you know there’s too much light pollution to see everything that’s there. You wonder how the Commander’s prosthetic leg fares on beach sand, but the travel fatigue is catching up to you, and even he looks visibly tired. 

“I think I’ll get ready for bed,” you announce, bussing the dishes out to the hallway. Miller lingers, but as you finish brushing your teeth and emerge from the bathroom in your pajamas, he shuts the patio doors and gives you a look that’s identifiably strange even behind the shades. 

You fuss with your luggage just to give yourself something to do, suddenly self-conscious. “Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s nothing.”

Watching him take your place in the bathroom, you chalk it up to the pajamas. While not outstandingly sexy-- requisitions hadn’t gone that far. You think, anyway, you hadn’t gotten around to looking through all the luggage-- they were fashioned with a tropical climate in mind. And he probably didn’t see a lot of Diamond Dogs running around in jammies either, too. 

Spending so much time thinking about pajamas makes it a relief when Miller emerges from the bathroom in his, a matching soft linen set monogrammed with his fake initials. “This is ridiculous.”

“You look comfy.”

“I feel like an idiot,” he grumps, sitting down on the bed and pulling up one pant leg to start unbuckling his prosthetic. “A rich idiot.”

“Would it put you off if I slept in the bed, sir?”

He twists around to look in your general direction, distractedly. “What? No.”

Disbelieving, you watch as he grabs one of the pillows off the bed and, incredibly, starts the journey towards the room’s couch. “You aren’t sleeping on the _couch,_ Miller.”

“It’s fine. It’s meant to be slept on.”

You know it’s pointless to try and stare him down, he’ll just hide behind his shades and innate stubbornness. Even suggesting it might be more comfortable for him would probably drive him to sleep on the floor just to spite you, so you try a different tactic. “If the cleaning staff find out, that might read strangely. Newlyweds who don’t sleep in the same bed?”

Miller stops where he is, before hanging his head with a sigh. Turning, he hobbles back to the bed and swats the pillow back into place. “Happy?”

“For now.”

“At least no one will doubt we’re a married couple,” he mutters, sitting back down on the bed. You know he’s sour about being nagged, but it’s not like you can help it. If he runs himself down on vacation and comes back in worse shape… well, you won’t torment yourself imagining the consequences. Ocelot might come at you with some pliers. Or worse, the Boss might be disappointed. 

You slip into bed yourself and try not to immediately roll towards the middle-- the mattress is so thick and downy that it seems natural to gravitate towards the center, but you don’t want to make Miller uncomfortable. 

He seems content on his side of the bed, so you’ll just stick to yours as well. Laying down suddenly makes you aware of how tired you are, how enjoyable it is to sleep in such a comfortable bed, and how annoyingly bright the last light in the room is. 

Perhaps predictably, it’s the bedside lamp on Miller’s side. He’s still up, looking at small, bright text on the iDroid scrolling past. You check the time just to make sure it’s as late as you think it is, before scooting just the barest bit closer. “Are those the daily summaries, sir?”

“Yeah.” The forms glow reflected on his shades as he sorts through them. “Want me to read you a bedtime expenditure report?”

“Maybe another time.” You wait, fruitlessly. “Sir?”

“What?”

“We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

Miller scoffs, flicking the iDroid’s controls. “Doing nothing.”

“Well, why don’t you look over the dailies tomorrow when you’ve got nothing to do?”

He looks down at you with a sudden exasperation, and you resist your desire to huddle up farther under the covers. “Do you want me to turn the light out?”

“Yes.”

“Then just say that, next time.” The iDroid powers down, and he reaches over to snap the bedside lamp off. There’s some rustling and the mattress shifts under you as he gets comfortable, and then the wiry click of his shades being set aside. 

You try not to wonder what he looks like without them. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he sighs into the darkness. “I know none of this is your fault.”

There’s a strong temptation to say that you don’t mind, that even if you had been nervous you were glad to be out here with him. That this could be fun if he let it, that you were certainly willing to try. 

You feel like it would just get you an unreadable stare and maybe a cutting remark about optimism. So instead, you get settled under the alien smelling sheets and wait for your vision to adjust fully to the darkness. “Goodnight, sir.”

“You shouldn’t call me that,” he reminds you, this time a bit more softly. 

You bury your face in your pillow and hope it muffles you. “Goodnight, honey.”

Kaz rolls over onto his side, and laughs a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your support with this fic! :')


	3. Day Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so I'm back! From outer space! You just walked in to find me here, with this old fic stuck upon my face! You should've changed your subscrib list, you should've stopped following me, if you had known for just one second that I'd update eventually!

The chirping of an iDroid interrupts your dream just once before you wake up, more suddenly than you had intended. Training and instinct tell you to _get up, get up all the way, put hands on a weapon,_ but you settle for just propping yourself up and trying to calm your startled heartbeat.

Kaz is already fighting the covers, and you can hear him struggle to lay hands on the iDroid. The bright blue of the display in the dark makes him hiss and shove his shades on, before struggling for a moment with the headset. “Miller. … Boss? What’s wrong?”

The sudden concern in his voice wakes you up all the way immediately, pushing back the covers.

He still sounds half angry, hoarse with sleep. “Well, what else would I think? Calling at this time?”

Kaz is silent as he listens, and then for a long moment more, before he drags a hand down his face. “Boss, there’s a two hour time difference between Seychelles and Ibiza.”

You let your arms give out and flop face-first back into the pillow.

“No, it’s alright. We needed the wakeup call anyway. I’m behind on looking over yesterday’s dailies, and I expect there’ll be some third shift reports coming in this morning, too. … What? Of course I trust you, Boss, I-- … What do you want me to do instead? … There’s sun on Mother Base, I could’ve just stayed home.”

For a moment, you almost feel sorry for Kaz. Peeling your face off the pillow, you roll onto your side to watch him. Even in the gray early morning light, he has the distinct air of someone fighting a losing battle. 

“I know, Boss. I’ll try,” he says, voice softening a little. “You know, this means I get to do the same thing to you. A nice week in Madrid with nothing to do, how does that sound? … Hah, alright. It was good to hear from you, Boss.”

Kaz listens for a moment longer, before handing over the iDroid and headset to you. 

Excitement at hearing from home distracts you from marveling at how quickly his attitude had changed, and you sit up to lean against the pillows as you hold the headset to your ear. “Boss?”

 _“That you should be so lucky.”_ Ocelot sounds smug to have caught you being hopeful.

“Sorry, sir.” You look over to watch Kaz pulling on his leg prosthesis, apparently not wanting to sleep anymore. “Check in went fine, the room was clean of anything significant. It’s been very quiet.”

_“Your cover holding up?”_

“Outwardly, sir.”

_“What, he’s not as sweet on you as you hoped?”_

You can easily picture him sitting with his Cuban heels up on his desk just smirking into the headset. “I find the likelihood of that ever happening to anyone very low, sir.”

 _“You might be surprised,”_ Ocelot chuckles, a slight change in voice quality reminding you he’s there for business, and so are you. _“Make an effort to get a look at some of the other guests today, see if anyone stands out. The MSF contact may have sent ahead a scout to keep tabs on you.”_

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

_“Nothing for now. Don’t get sloppy.”_

“Of course, sir.” The line clicks and signals his departure, and you’re not sure whether to be relieved he didn’t have more to say, or peeved that that was it. A scout to keep tabs on you? Did that imply that things were less than completely friendly between the former MSF soldier and the Diamond Dogs? Shouldn’t that have been in the brief? If you’d had more time you would’ve-- _should’ve_ \-- requested to see a transcription of all communications between the two parties. A recording would’ve been even--

Kaz makes a small noise and you realize he’s been holding out a hand for the headset for a long moment, and you hand it over quickly. “Lost in thought?”

“You could say that, sir.”

“Well, stop it. We’re on vacation, right?” Kaz levers himself up and out of bed with his cane, hobbling towards the bathroom and scuffing his feet against the room’s carpet. His mood is remarkably improved from yesterday, and you chalk it up to the deep post-travel sleep, and-- more likely-- hearing from the Boss. 

It puts you in a good mood as you get up, opening the patio doors to let in the cool early morning air. There’s some mist in the distance over the shore, in the process of being burnt off by the rising sun, and everything smells like dew and sea salt, still dark with light on the horizon. 

You stretch out, casually checking for any signs of attempted entry during the night, and double-checking everything you’d placed the day before. Nothing’s amiss, and by the time you’re done, Kaz is out of the shower and dressed. Lots of clean white linen and expensive beige tones, and he keeps fiddling with the collar like it’s too loose, and you busy yourself with sorting through some of the clothes you’d brought to keep yourself from trying to help him. A coordinated outfit specifically for tennis jogs your memory. “There are tennis courts downstairs, how about we have breakfast out there? It should be deserted.”

He looks thoughtful. “Fine by me.”

The hotel’s kitchen is already going at full steam when you make it down there, and everyone looks positively delighted to send you out to the tennis courts with coffee and pastries. Kaz tips generously and is already getting a reputation for it, and you’re glad. It could come in handy later.

The tennis courts are open, flanked by lounges and umbrellas where Kaz sets up camp. You don’t want to risk insulting him by trying to help him get comfortable, so instead you fuss with the large umbrella. 

Standing back, you watch him settle down with a cup of the hotel’s coffee and the iDroid on his lap. You must be too obvious about it, because he peers up at you owlishly. “What?”

“Are you having a good time?” you ask, a little helplessly. It was just strange to think of someone’s idea of a vacation being curled up with work files, but he looked cozy enough… 

“Yeah.” Kaz gives you a look like you’re the one being strange, before gesturing vaguely with his coffee cup. “Don’t worry about me, go… tennis.”

It feels unusual to be out on the court by yourself, serving into the practice wall. It takes you a moment of mindfulness to place why: on Mother Base, you’re very rarely alone. Someone’s always around doing something, and more often than not any game is fair play to join. Doing half a dance against the court’s wall by yourself feels almost silly. 

But the feeling passes, and you fall into the rhythm of prediction and reaction. There was probably something deep you could say about the way skill and chance intertwined in both war and play, but you’re on vacation. 

A couple jogs past outside the court fences. The shadows shift and crawl across the court, the day heating up quickly. Kaz calls out _Looks like you’re winning!_ and you mess up the volley. But he laughs, so it’s worth it.

“Excuse me?” A nervous little voice to match the shadow approaching yours on the wall doesn’t surprise you, but it gives you a chance to catch your ball and breathe for a moment. “Would you like a partner?”

Turning, you try to hold back on first impressions, instead filing away observations. Her tennis skirt looks expensive, and the racket is an expensive offshoot of a brand name. Gold earrings fashioned like rose blooms. No makeup, but a healthy bronze tan and high cheekbones. Short brown hair in a bob, natural curls. Incredibly straight teeth, just the faintest hint of a French accent. Short, soft around the middle. Young.

Your gaze lingers on her racket. “Sure. You’re, ah, holding the racket a little high, though.”

“Am I? I’m sorry, I-- well, I’ve never really understood the rules of tennis.” She looks embarrassed, and you decide not to point out that it’s a matter of technique, not the rules.

You make an effort to relax your face and smile. “That’s alright. We’ll just play for fun.”

Her face lights up, the bright smile immediately looking like her natural state. “That sounds lovely!” 

She is, objectively, terrible at tennis.

More time is spent chasing after the balls, a wild serve bounces off Kaz’s umbrella and startles him, you misjudge a lunge and skin your knee. Your partner is having the time of her life, though, and you know it by the way that she laughs and runs after the balls ceaselessly, cheering at whenever she manages to hit a serve back over the net to you, and despite yourself, it’s infectious. 

It’s fun to play without worrying about the rules, and even more so with someone who’s obviously having such a good time. Even as you find yourself enjoying it, there’s a part of you wondering if she’s been sent over to you, if you’re a glossy photo in her dossier. More importantly, if Kaz is.

Eventually, she calls a timeout, running up to the net and doubling over. “You’re quite something! I’m all tired out!”

You join her at the net and extend a hand. “Nice to meet you, tired out.”

“Oh! It’s Martinique!” She shakes your hand with energy and a smile, and a firm grip. “And you…?”

You smile back, happy to finally put all that internal practice to use. “Morgan.”

“We match! Two ‘m’ names.” Martinique glows. “How are you enjoying your stay here so far?”

“It’s beautiful, I’d love to visit one of the beaches soon. Have you been into Sant Antoni yet?”

She drags the toe of her shoe across the court. “Not yet, my brother wanted to be sure I went with him. He says it can be a little wild there!”

“You’re here with your brother?”

“Yes! He’s off… somewhere, I’m sure.” Her hand goes to her hair, twisting a few of the curly dark locks in an embarrassment tic. “And you?”

“I’m here with my husband, Albert,” you say, before you can give yourself time to think about how strange it sounds. Gesturing with your racket, you motion in Kaz’s direction. 

She waves and gets one in response back, before leaning towards you conspiratorially. “My! He’s very stylish.” 

You bite back on a _God, you should’ve seen him yesterday._ “I didn’t catch your last name, Martinique.”

“It’s Hacket! Martinique Hacket. It rhymes with… racket!” She holds her up as proof, and despite yourself, you grin. “What about you?”

“Redfield.”

“How pretty!” She all but claps, and you feel like you’ve finally met someone who’s literally sunshine, and probably daisies. “You know, I’ve heard the pool here is wonderful?”

“We’ve got a nice view of it from our room, it does look nice.”

“Would you believe I’m as bad a swimmer as I am at tennis?” She flutters her dark eyelashes and two dimples appear in either cheek as she grins. “Be my lifeguard, Morgan?”

 _Pools, drowning, accidents. Can Miller swim? He won’t get in the pool anyway. Can’t leave him here alone._ “Well, how can I refuse?” You hold out an arm and she links hers with it happily, the two of you heading towards the table. 

Martinique practically leaps to attention in front of Kaz as you introduce them. “Martinique, Albert.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Martinique.” Kaz takes her hand and kisses the back of it with a frankly stunning balance of charisma and casualness. “You’ve got a lovely name.”

She puts a hand to her cheek, flustered, and you can’t say you blame her. “Oh, thank you!” 

Kaz turns his gaze on you next, and even with the shades on you feel the intensity. “Good game?”

“Mhm.” As you lean down, you give yourself time to whisper _martinique hacket_ against his cheek and ear, before leaving a light kiss. “We were thinking of moving to the pool.” You don’t leave it as a question, since you don’t want him to think he’s allowed to just lurk in the tennis courts all day. 

“Sounds like fun. Why don’t you go on ahead, I’ll meet you two there.” He smiles up at you, and part of you thinks it’s probably genuine. Having someone to run a background check on is just the kind of task he enjoys. 

 

Kaz actually beats you both to the pool: Martinique and you split ways to change into bathing suits and meet again in the lobby, and by the time you make it to the pool he’s already installed under another umbrella. 

Martinique sets her towel and sunglasses down and makes it all the way to putting a foot in the pool before you call her back over to put sunscreen on, and Kaz barks a laugh. “Already a little sister to you?”

“I--” You come up short, not realizing you’d already stepped into that role. “I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s nice of you. She seems to need it.” Kaz nods at Martinique, who faithfully returns and lets you put at least a little sunscreen on her nose and shoulders. Before it can dry she’s already throwing herself into the pool with a shriek, much to the distaste of some leisurely floating older ladies already in the pool. 

You take a little more time with yours, sitting next to Kaz’s feet on the pool chair as you rub over your arms and legs. You don’t know how anyone could be comfortable in dress shoes near a pool, but he looks comfy enough. 

Maybe you stare a moment too long, because Kaz sits up, setting the iDroid aside for a moment, and reflex readies you for a reprimand. Instead, he tugs the bottle of overly-expensive sunscreen from you. “Hold out your hand.”

You obey, and you watch with your jaw wound tightly shut as he squeezes sunscreen into your open palm, before setting the bottle aside and scraping it onto his own fingertips. Martinique is chatting happily with the old ladies in some faraway dimension as Kaz rubs warm sunscreen onto your back and leans close to your ear. “I didn’t think you could wear less than that tennis outfit, and yet here you are.”

 _Sir?_ You bite the inside of your cheek. “Sweetheart?”

Kaz pats your back. “Go have fun. I’ll be here.”

You’d been planning to ease into the pool, but you’re so suddenly ready to dunk yourself that you follow Martinique’s way in, launching yourself into the blue.

 

The pool passes by uneventfully. No attempted drownings or faked accidents. Every time you glance at Kaz he’s working, but it’s hard to tell with the shades. You chalk whatever happened with the sunscreen up to a heat exhaustion hallucination, and Kaz certainly doesn’t bring it up when the two of you retreat back upstairs to the room. 

He just sits on the patio and reads the paper, looking awfully harmless. You shower and change into something airy and aggressively casual for a lunch with Martinique, leaving Kaz in the room, despite your invitation for him to join the two of you. 

Lunch is at the hotel’s restaurant-- Martinique’s brother doesn’t really want her leaving the place without him, you learn, given as she’s only a very recent university graduate. She slides around telling you what her area of study was, and you get the feeling it was less about academics for her and more about life experiences. She’s terribly young, she drinks coffee, and she’s trying to be a vegetarian-- but fish doesn’t really count, as you’re both having some kind of fancy shrimp salad.

She also likes talking about herself, which suits you just fine. ‘Morgan’ has a skeleton history you’ve been trying to flesh out in the odd moment alone, and it’s not hard to keep up the pretense. It’s just strange to have a conversation with someone that doesn’t include geopolitical analysis or battle stories. 

Martinique’s just asked you if you like dogs and you’re ready to dive into Morgan’s tragic dog allergy sob story when a smartly-dressed waiter appears at your elbow, honest to god holding a phone on a platter. “A call for you.”

You take the phone from him. “Do you mind…?”

“Not at all!” Martinique looks as dazzled as you feel.

You answer, forgetting to be nervous. “Hello?”

 _“It’s me,”_ Kaz says, sounding pleased to have something to talk about. _“I ran a background check on Martinique.”_

You twist the cord around your finger and glance at Martinique with a smile. She gives you a thumbs up and grins over her coffee. “Really, dear? How is it?”

_“Not much turns up for her. Her family, though… the Hackets are some of the most valuable middlemen in the world. They have a knack for setting people up with whatever they need, negotiating deals, even acting as mediators. Most commonly for illegal trading and services, and recently they’ve been getting involved with putting PFs in contact with clients.”_

It was unusual, but not supremely far-fetched. A job like that required travel and money. “I’m glad to hear it, I’d much rather know now than later.”

_“Martinique’s father died recently, and it’s suspected that he left a lot of money to her, and most of the business contacts and company power to his son, Mercedes. I’m still digging things up on him, but Martinique’s just another rich girl, at least on the surface.”_

“Things do seem that way now. But, you never know.” 

_“Keep your guard up. I’d hate to see you get taken out by someone who’s that bad at tennis.”_

You smile to yourself. “I’ve got to go, hun. I’m being rude.” 

_“Hmph.”_

“I’ll see you back at the room?”

_“Alright. Be careful.”_

You hang up and tip the waiter, turning back to find Martinique with her face propped up on both hands, smiling. “Oh, no. Was I being sappy?”

“No, just… you two are so comfortable with each other! I can’t wait until I find someone like that.” 

You sip your drink modestly. “Well, it’s not without a lot of work.” 

 

When you get back to the room, Kaz is settled on the couch and flipping through a new, even more boring kind of iDroid menu than you’ve seen before. “How was lunch?”

You flop down next to him on the couch, feeling tired from either the exercise or Martinique. “It was pretty good. I’m starting to get sick of seafood, though.”

He gives you a look.

All you’ve got for him is a shrug. “I didn’t learn any insider secrets from Martinique, if that’s what you’re asking. She’s sweet, but she really is the baby of the family, it seems like.”

Kaz isn’t letting go of it, talking to you as you take off your shoes and resist the temptation to kick them under the couch. “It’s a little suspicious that she and her brother, the two new heirs to the fortune are here at the exact same time we are, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” You lean your head back, staring at the ceiling and going over the lunch again. “I won’t turn my back on her, but I don’t think she’s out to get us.”

“I don’t trust anyone that smiles that much. Not anymore.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. “Do you want to talk about that thing you just said, or…?”

“No.” He doesn’t look up from the iDroid. “You seem tired.”

It’s kind of an obvious topic switch, but he’s right. “I think it’s the travel. I do more or less the same physical workout on Mother Base.”

The corner of his mouth twitches up. “Think we could use a tennis court?”

“I bet the Boss would be great at tennis.”

There’s a pointed silence where you both imagine it, only eventually broken by Kaz clearing his throat. 

You unpack a few more things and straighten up, enjoying the peace and quiet. The hotel’s walls are reflective of the expense, keeping the rest of the world muffled and at bay. At some point, Kaz turns on the television to watch the news, and there’s only so much useless puttering you can do before you settle down beside him. 

The news is bleak as always. Kaz listens carefully and always seems on the verge of trying to dispute something before giving up. Your slouch becomes a lean, and the day catches up, pressing down on you until you’re horizontal. 

You don’t realize you’ve fallen asleep until you wake up out of it, the top of your head resting against Kaz’s leg. The patio doors are dark, and it’s a lot later than it feels. You yawn. “D’you wanna go out to eat?”

“We’ll stay in tonight.”

Jolted awake by the diagonal answer, you sit up. “No! If you want to go out--”

“I don’t.” Kaz says, simply. “Stay there, I’ll order dinner.”

He gets up, and you twist around on the couch to watch him pick up the room service menu by the phone. “Miller…?”

Kaz pauses in alarm, phone receiver between his shoulder and ear. “What?” 

“Nothing.” You shrink behind the couch’s back, peeking over the edge at him. “Thanks.”

“You’d better not have sunstroke.” 

You don’t, but maybe out of concern, Kaz lets you lean against him as the two of you keep watching the news. Dinner arrives. He didn’t order you seafood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, thank you so much for your support with this fic! This update is long overdue, and hopefully the next one won't take as gosh darn long! Enjoy your holiday season!


	4. Day Three

You hadn’t realized how much you had really wanted to go out on the beach until you were there.

There was a lot to be said about how striking Mother Base was, all ocean and sky and the barely visible seam between the two, but it wasn’t the beach. It wasn’t warm sand, it wasn’t wading into the cold surf, and it certainly wasn’t Commander Miller leaning on your arm for support. 

The fact that he’d been the one to suggest it over breakfast was icing on the cake. He’d shrugged, sipped his coffee and said that it seemed like a shame not to go to the beach, as long as you didn’t mind going slowly. 

You didn’t: a long walk on the beach before the sun had gotten a real foothold and made things hot sounded perfect. The Boss had called early again, and you’d stayed comfortable under the covers while Kaz walked him through where to find the key to the cabinet where Ocelot kept all the exotic coffee mixes. The thought struck you that maybe the Boss missed Kaz a bit himself, and the same thing seemed to have occurred to Kaz, putting him in a good mood for the rest of the morning. 

The hotel had a bleached white boardwalk along the shore, but it only extended so far. The rest was white sand and short, manageable dunes. Your sun hat’s brim flutters with every salty breeze and the gulls don’t seem interested in either of you. Kaz’s cane is hooked over your other arm for whenever you’re back on hard land, but you’re not in any particular hurry to get there. 

Conversation meanders, mostly news from home. There isn’t much going on at the moment, so it leaves you thinking about the mission still ahead of you. The two of you haven’t really talked much about it, and you don’t see any reason not to, especially not with the two of you both in high spirits. 

“So.” You throw caution to the wind and pat his arm. “What should I know about this old MSF buddy of yours?”

Kaz smiles wryly. “Are you sure you want to talk shop? Our meeting with him isn’t until tomorrow, I would’ve thought you wanted to hang out with _Martinique,_ maybe make friendship bracelets--”

“I’m still worn out from yesterday.” You cut him off, and he chuckles. “So?”

He squints behind his shades, considering his words carefully. “He wasn’t really a ‘buddy.’ Koala was an ass, but he had confidence and good reflexes. Not exceptional, but you felt like a fool if you turned your back to him.”

You try to picture him and can’t come up with much. He sounds like a bit of a jerk, if you’re honest. “Do you think he’s really interested in any kind of partnership?”

“We aren’t. He’ll either assimilate his PF into Diamond Dogs, or he’ll get the same treatment as anyone else. This whole meeting is a gesture of goodwill and respect for old time’s sake.” He says it simply, and his confidence is impressive. Not misplaced, either. 

This is all intensely over your pay grade. You aren’t here to help him broker any deals, you’re here to watch his back and ostensibly make sure he has a decent vacation. 

As if he can sense your train of thought, Kaz nudges your shoulder with his. “Don’t worry about it. I can handle him.”

“Good. If I had to write home that somebody named ‘Koala’ got the better of you…” 

His laugh is a short huff, and you suddenly find something interesting to look at out on the horizon, shielding your eyes from the sparkling water. Gulls cartwheel overhead. 

“The last time I was on a beach like this…” Kaz muses aloud. “Hm. I’ll keep that to myself.”

You lean towards him, intently. “Hey, you can’t say something like that and then not tell me…”

“Sorry.” That lopsided smile shows up again, creasing his face. “It’s classified.”

Your laugh is snatched away by a gust of wind, followed shortly by your sun hat. “Oh--!” 

Kaz’s torso twists suddenly before he seems to catch up to himself, having grabbed for the hat before remembering he didn’t have a hand for it. “Shit.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get it!” You unloop your arm from his, passing his cane back to himself before splashing out of the surf after your hat. At least the wide brim is helping it catch a lot of air, sailing like an errant frisbee over the sand. “I can’t lose something this expensive, Requisitions would take it out of my pay!”

A wave rushes up against the backs of your knees, stronger this time than the others that had swirled around your calves and you think about someone, maybe a long time ago, saying _don’t turn your back on the ocean,_ and you push yourself a bit harder to get after the hat. Warm sand kicks up after your heels. 

The wind shifts just as you catch up to the wayward hat, blowing it into your face and you have time to thank your lucky stars you didn’t have to do an undignified dive for it in front of Kaz. “Got it!” 

Waving triumphantly, you turn back in time to see Kaz struggling out of the surf on all fours. 

You drop the hat and run. 

The beach sand turns hot under your feet, wind stinging at your face and roaring in your ears and you don’t even have the breath to curse. He looks like a shipwrecked survivor, just rolled over by the incoming surf and still trying to get his balance back. Kneeling beside him on the wet sand, you put a hand around his waist to help him up without thinking. “Kaz? Commander? Are--”

The rest of whatever it was gets punched out of your mouth as the next wave surges up, salt water coursing through your nose and briefly threatening to choke you before training kicks in, fighting against the current dragging at your legs. You grab onto Kaz hard and haul him up along with yourself, heart pounding as your feet work hard to get purchase on the soft, melting sand. 

Fear and momentum carry you out of the worst of the churning surf, soft sea foam rushing back out to sea around you as you let him down onto the flat, dark beach. Your heart pounds as your hands move over his dress shirt, checking automatically for entry wounds or-- or something, just, anything to keep your hands on him, make sure he’s here and safe--

Kaz stares at you, sopping wet, shades askew. Your manners depart for a moment and let you push wet hair out of his face, hands retreating to cup his jaw. _If I kissed him, it wouldn’t be unusual, it wouldn’t be-- it’d be right, I was so worried--_

He pulls away, arm twisting to check around his belt, frantically. “No--”

“Kaz--?”

“The iDroid!” His hand curls into a fist, voice loud and shaking with anger. “How could I have been so _stupid?”_

Your mouth is hanging open, salt water on your lips. He’d lost the iDroid. That was it? That was what he was upset about? “Kaz, it’s-- we can replace it--”

“I shouldn’t have lost it to begin with!” he roars, and you cringe back reflexively, hands jerking away from him. It’s the loudest you’ve ever heard him, and it strips away all your training and reflexes and habits for a moment.

Kaz curls in on himself, pushing a hand through his hair in angry distraction and you don’t know what to do or say to make this better. “It was an accident--”

His face darkens and all the shout goes out of his voice and curls up behind clenched teeth. _“Don’t.”_

So, you don’t. 

You put out a hand for leverage to help him up, and keep your arm bent for him to hold onto. The expensive cane is gone in the surf, not that it would’ve been much good anyway, not on the sand. His grip is iron on your forearm, and he doesn’t say anything on the terribly long walk back to the hotel. 

 

The room is quiet when you get back to it, clothes stiff with dried saltwater, feeling worn smooth by the wind and sand. Miller doesn’t touch you any longer than he has to, retrieving a less glamorous crutch from his suitcase and hobbling out to the patio, shedding sand the whole way. 

You stare at him for a moment, the edge of his face silhouetted by the brilliant green and blue outdoors. You can’t really bring yourself to feel like any of this was your fault, because it wasn’t. But you feel stupid for not being able to think of some way to make things better, like there’s a simple resolution just out of reach. 

There isn’t, of course. You rinse off in the shower and change into fresh clothes methodically. He hasn’t moved from the patio when you’re done, but you do get an acknowledging hand wave when you tell him you’re going out. He needs time to cool down, maybe some personal space as well.

It goes against every instinct to leave the hotel without him, but staying there feels almost unbearable. You’d locked the door on your way out. He knew where all your tools were. There was a phone line set up for emergency calls to the offshore support that he knew the number to. It still feels like excuses, like doing a bad job, and it gnaws at you. 

Despite that, the fresh air does you good. There’s plenty of city within walking distance of the hotel, so you stretch your legs. Both local flowers and tourists are in bloom, and you don’t look out of place, moving between them. Eventually, you pick an outdoor cafe and sit, watching people. It strikes you that you haven’t seen so many civilians in an unusually long time, that this is your first time away from Mother Base in a populated area in… well, too long, probably. 

You find yourself missing Kaz. It’s almost annoying, but you feel like he’d enjoy the scenery, if not the crowds. The food is better than the hotel’s, too, in some indefinable way. Better seasoning. 

By some chance you see Martinique as the afternoon drags on, on the arm of a man who seems to be her spitting image-- it has to be Mercedes, the busy brother. You hadn’t realized they were twins, but there’s no other conclusion to be drawn. Paying your bill at the cafe, you trail them a few blocks for no other reason than curiosity, but they couldn’t be more normal if they tried. Martinique’s enthusiasm is visible at any distance, and you feel a pressure easing that you hadn’t realized you’d been holding onto. 

The sun dips down below the horizon as you make your way back to the hotel, stopping briefly for dinner. A local guy convinces you to order paella and talks incomprehensibly about fishing as you eat, and doesn’t take it personally when you decline his invitation to a nearby dance club. You have enough leftovers for a sizable peace offering for being gone all day, so you head back to the hotel, the streets lit up with lights of all colors and streams of laughing people. 

The novelty of an all-night florist’s stand strikes you, and you stop for a bouquet. You don’t have a great eye for flowers, so you make up with it for variety. They are, you tell yourself sternly, for the _room,_ not for Kaz. 

But, you’d be lying if you weren’t feeling relieved on the elevator ride up the room. The day had passed by quickly, but you had missed him, separate of your job. Telling him doesn’t strike you as a bad idea either-- it might throw him off being sour about the iDroid. And you’d test the emergency phone line out, too, make sure that worked and that they knew you didn’t have the iDroid anymore, unless he’d done that already. It wasn’t the end of the world. 

Your confidence wilts as soon as you unlock the door, shutting it quietly behind you. Something must’ve happened while you were away. You can tell, the way the room seems to have the same heavy air as a dark afternoon with a thunderstorm rolling in. Miller is sitting at the desk, wreathed by papers, near the empty iDroid charging dock. Actual work isn’t getting done, as signified by the almost half-empty bottle of scotch on the desk. 

He pushes himself back and forth in the swiveling chair with his cane, which would’ve been cute if it didn’t seem threatening. “Have a nice time out, dear?”

You force yourself not to take a tighter hold on the bouquet in your arms. It would crinkle and give away how much the mocking tone of his voice grated on you. “I got flowers. For the room.”

Miller doesn’t answer, but he does get up. It’s hard to discern if he’s shitfaced, but his gait isn’t too wobbly. Not more than usual, but it doesn’t stop you from worrying. He shuffles around a bit as you finish setting up the flowers in one of the room’s extra vases, pointedly quiet. The paella gets put away in the miniature fridge, forgotten. “Did you drink all that yourself?”

“No. I’m in the process,” he chides, putting more ice in his glass. The cheerful tinkle is harshly at odds with the way he straightens up and then leans heavily over on his crutch, scowling at you. “You look just like him.”

“Who?”

He doesn’t answer, instead turning to the bouquet you’d set up, gesturing before he takes another sip of his drink. “These are going to die.”

You let yourself frown, but try your best to stay gentle. “Did something happen?”

“Keeping up this stupid socialite pretense is a waste of time and money.” Miller hobbles around, leading you around like a worried satellite. “I’m going to contact Koala and tell him to hurry it up. I don’t care if it makes him suspicious. We can’t afford to waste time like this.”

You swallow back a comment on how much that scotch probably cost, figuring it wouldn’t really help your case. “I can’t advise that, sir. That’s a bad move strategically, and this is supposed to be an honest vacation. I’m sure the Boss really wanted that for you, even more than reaching out to your MSF contact.”

He smiles at you, something in the creases of his face turning into something nasty even before he speaks. “And how much do you know about how the Boss thinks, Moth?”

“Well, I…” Your mouth opens and then shuts a little quickly. Your face feels hot in an unpleasant way. “I’m just trying to cheer you up.”

“I don’t need cheering up,” Kaz sneers, leaning in so close to you that you can see yourself reflected in his shades, warped and idiotic. “I’m on vacation.”

Just as suddenly as he had invaded your personal space, he’s gone, leaving behind the smell of his shampoo and the scotch. You feel a naked hatred ball your fists up as you watch his shoulders work, limping out onto the patio, and just as fast you force it to recede. Giving your XO a shiner while you’re supposed to be protecting him would be the most pathetic possible way to get booted out of Diamond Dogs. 

You count to ten backwards and frontwards and backwards one more time to cool down, watching him lower himself down to the patio chair and set his glass on the side table. The responsible, adult thing would be to leave him alone and let him cool down, go lick your wounds somewhere else until it’s time to be professional again. 

But the side table that his scotch is sweating onto has a lovely varnish and it’d be a shame if he left a ring. 

Fully aware you’re kicking a hornet’s nest, you grab the nearest coaster and march after him. It’s blown glass with some kind of colorful design swirled like thick paint on the inside, and probably costs more than any kind of coaster ever should. You set it down on the side table next to his drink and stand back expectantly.

Miller snatches it up and throws it in a high overhand arc straight off the patio. There’s a distant and wildly cartoonish _plunk_ as it lands in the pool.

There’s a hot wash of anger again and you let it pass over like a wave, forcing your voice to be steady and cool. “Would you like me to leave?”

He presses his hand to his face underneath the shades, eventually looking up at you with an almost weary anger. “Aren’t you pissed off?”

“It wasn’t _my_ coaster.”

Miller scoots forward just a touch, intensely focused on you. You find yourself staring at the sweat near his temple and the way his hand flexes on the edge of the chair, knuckles aching white. “They sent you away, made you play babysitter for a miserable cripple. Doesn’t that make your blood boil?”

“No.” Your own anger is blanched out suddenly, shocked at hearing himself say it out loud. “I like you, Commander. That isn’t how I see you.” _You’re fierce and you take things too far and you overreach and you’re there. You’re the heart of Mother Base, and you’re just like us._

Miller makes a derisive noise, and somehow that hurts more than anything else he’s done.

“You think I’m lying?”

He glances at you over the rim of his glass. “I think you could’ve taken a swing at me and you didn’t. I think Ocelot taught you to lie your way out of anything that isn’t conducive to the mission, and you’d say anything to smooth my feathers.”

Ocelot, Ocelot, _Ocelot._ He’s so many leagues away and he’s still lurking. Is that all Miller sees when he looks at you, just an extension of Ocelot? Your heart thunders with resentment-- you hadn’t asked for special training, if you had known it would’ve made him look at you like some kind of a treacherous threat you would’ve flunked out of it intentionally, you would’ve gotten assigned to cleaning on the Conservation platform for the rest of your days and died happy buried in zebra shit. It would’ve been better than ending up here, feeling like this.

You find yourself trying to think about thinking, about stopping and considering what you’re doing when your hands twist into the front of his dress shirt, lapels bunched up. It would be a good idea to think about what you’re doing, to examine if this course of action will make life harder or easier, if it will affect the mission, if it might bite you later on, but instead you just haul him up, pushing him against the railing. His knuckles rap against it as he grabs it for balance, the light from the hotel room spills out in a way that turns you into a dark silhouette on his shades. 

He smells like the scotch. Tastes like it too, underneath the dry lips and the stubble. You leave him room to pull away but he doesn’t, only the faintest movement under your hands and mouth suggesting he’s not completely frozen. His breathing restarts, loud and rushed when you creep a hand up his neck and into his hair, scraping your nails along his scalp and chasing the tremor that runs through him at the feel of it. 

Kaz almost moves to follow when you pull back and catches himself. You let go, smoothing the irreparably rumpled front of his shirt. His shades are crooked, but it would feel too intimate to try and fix them. To fix anything, at this point. “Go to bed. You’re drunk.”

He turns away, leaning heavily on the railing. “Where’re you going?”

“To look for the coaster.” 

 

The pool is empty, the water still heated and lit up. You drop in without taking any clothes off, anything valuable already left in the room. These aren’t your clothes, anyway, not really. 

You find the coaster sitting at the nine-and-a-half-feet slope towards the deep end, sitting perfectly flat on the bottom. When you surface, it’s hard not to stare back at Miller from where he’s watching you, still on the patio. Maybe you could’ve been flirty about this, in another timeline where you hadn’t already done so much damage. 

There’s staff waiting to give you a towel before you head back into the hotel, but no one says anything impolite. Money can buy the space to be eccentric. 

The lights are off when you get back to the room, and Miller’s in bed. Not asleep, quite obviously, but it’s better than nothing. You practice thinking about nothing as you wash the chlorine off and change into pajamas, moving automatically. 

There’s enough space between you two on the bed that none of his body heat reaches you. The sheets are cool and crisp and Miller doesn’t shift once until you fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo-hoo! An update! The last chapter before ""plot"" kicks in, which is a bit scary. Not too scary though, not with all the support from you guys-- thank you so much for your patience with this fic!


	5. Day Four

Kaz oversleeps, although you can’t say if it’s sympathy or spite that makes you let him. 

Either way, you spend your morning being quiet around the room, stretching on the patio, ordering an expensive and aggressively healthy breakfast, reading yesterday’s newspaper. You keep the patio doors open and let in the sunlight as the day creeps towards noon, feeling refreshed and detached from everything that happened yesterday. 

Which might be the wrong thing to do, but it’s all you can do. The alternative is to worry yourself sick over a brief moment of lunacy that Kaz might or might not remember, and on the day when you’re supposed to meet Koala. You have to be ready for anything: the file was mostly accomplishments, less about character. Hopefully not stupid enough to start a scene in the middle of the hotel dining room, but crazier things had happened in Miller’s life. 

You pretend not to notice when Kaz does finally get up, very slowly and very gingerly, and instead remain serene and contemplative on the patio while he showers and dresses. Absolutely fine, a consummate professional. 

He’s sipping cold leftover breakfast coffee when you decide to test the waters, and gives you kind of a remorseful look from behind his shades. “I didn’t mean to oversleep. We aren’t running late, right?”

“No, sir.”

He makes a thoughtful noise and nurses the coffee a bit longer. There’s a silence that’s definitely empty, but maybe not asking to be filled, although you’re ready to pile everything into it that’ll fit. Does he remember what you did? Does he remember arguing? Is he ignoring it to make today go smoother? 

You hold and count through a few deep breaths. It doesn’t matter right now. What matters is your lunch date with the official purpose of this trip, and not embarrassing or otherwise endangering Kaz. And he understands that better than you do, today. 

The hour approaches and Kaz lets you fuss with the details of his outfit, considering that it’s a full suit, terribly expensive, and a lot fancier than what you’ve got on-- dapper linen suit with crisp highlights. Effortless money. You wish the expensive cane hadn’t gotten lost in the ocean, although the more industrial one he has lends an air of seriousness that you think suits him. 

You’re adjusting his tie (deep blue, makes you think of Mother Base) for the third and most unnecessary time when he finally puts his hand on yours, gently. “You’re nervous.”

_No, I’m a consummate professional._ You take the smallest step back you can manage, pulling away and folding your hands behind your back. “I want this to go well.”

“Try not to worry about it,” Kaz offers, moving like he wants to pat your shoulder and then leaving off halfway through. “It’s just business. You… look nice, too.”

“Not too nice, I hope. You’re supposed to be the important one, so I tried to keep that in mind. Everything requisitions packed is so _fancy--”_

He chuckles a little, only wincing a bit. “Forget it, Moth.”

The dining room’s lunch crush is in full swing by the time you get there, the noise of conversation and silverware like a flock of tropical birds bouncing around the ceiling. People are chatting everywhere, waitstaff edge around you carefully and exasperatedly as you try to get your bearings, and you’d feel a lot better if you had a gun. 

As it is, you keep one hand hovering near Kaz’s back, just to be safe. His crutch buys the two of you a little space and more patience from the people around you, but you’re still moving slowly. The lunch invitation on the hotel’s stationary had invited the two of you to one of the tables towards the back of the dining room, segregated by ornamented folding screens and artfully placed indoor plants. A little extra privacy for a little extra money. 

Kaz is headed that way at his best pace through the crowd, while you keep a pleasant neutral expression and try not to get pushed into him. You’re not late, so there’s no need to rush. Every moment gives you another second to center yourself. Everything is going to be fine. 

There’s a flutter of motion like a bird’s wing and you feel the wash of nerves pass over you as you prevent yourself from jerking in surprise-- it’s just a waving hand, but the hand is connected to Martinique, and your stomach plummets. _Not now. Not now. Whatever your deal is, not now._

“Ah, hell,” Kaz murmurs, as she starts weaving through the dining room towards the two of you, almost a double of herself following before you recognize it as the twin you’d seen the other night, Mercedes.

She arrives with a big smile and clasps a hand on your shoulder, eagerly trying to bring her brother forward for introductions. “Morgan! And Albert, too— I wanted to introduce you to my brother--”

Mercedes, to his credit, looks clearly uncomfortable and gently pulls her back. Their resemblance is stunning, down to the pretty taupe blazers looking suitably fun and fashionable. “Martinique, they’ve clearly somewhere to be.” He glances first at Kaz, then at you, with a nod. “Sorry.” 

You hear Kaz mumble _don’t worry about it_ and even hear yourself say something, but Martinique is already looking mortified, and you feel sorry for her. “Oh! I’m so sorry! Another time?”

It’s more than a little brusque considering how rich you’re all supposed to be around here, but you’ll make it up to her. A fruit basket or something ridiculous. It’ll be fine. 

You would’ve been able to pick out Koala’s section a mile away just from the size of the muscle scattered around it. Two big guys genially sipping coffee at the invisible line of entry to the table, making a point to look casual but huge. Further to the left in the dining room is one more man that you can feel watching, alone at a table. It would’ve been difficult to hide in leisure wear, but you wish you could’ve brought a gun. 

The two men waiting at the screen straighten up at the sight of Kaz as you approach, one raising his hand like he wants to tip a cap and the other gesturing you through. Behind the screen, there’s a booth, table, and a couple of chairs, but only one occupant. 

As soon as you see Koala, you curse yourself for being surprised that he looked different from his MSF days. It throws your balance off and makes you catalogue all the little details over again: stocky, jaw like a bulldog’s, shaved pink head and boxer’s ears. Tailored suit in a shade of gray that’s probably called _gunmetal_ or _steel morning,_ big college ring on his pinkie. Fingers like angry sausages. 

He stands up at the sight of the two of you, resting face splitting into a grin that reveals big, ceramic teeth. One gold canine glints on the periphery as he crosses the space to greet you in loping strides. “Kazuhira _goddamn_ Miller.”

“Koala.” Kaz sticks out his available hand, unfazed. “Unless you--?”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Koala finally gets the handshake going, gripping hard and clapping Kaz on his empty shoulder and your fingers twitch all at once. “God, something chewed you up and spat you out, didn’t it?”

“Guess it didn’t care for the taste.” Kaz’s tone suggests it’s the sort of rejoinder he’s used to giving out, but there’s no shame or shrinking. It doesn’t seem out of character to smile at him, so you do and immediately regret it as Koala feels invited to stare at you. 

“Speaking of tastes…” He gestures in your direction, like you’re a fancy accessory on Kaz’s suit. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Koala chuckles and retreats back behind the table, the booth’s leather creaking under his weight. “Oh, you always had a _type,_ that’s what I mean.”

You pull Kaz’s chair out for him to give your fists something to curl around for a momentary reprieve. He doesn’t look at you, and you draw strength from it-- he’s trusting you to keep your composure, and you can. You will. 

“C’mere.” Koala pats the booth’s cushion beside him, and your body moves to sit beside him as your brain starts counting forward to ten to smother the anger. “Don’t tell me you’re a Diamond Dog.”

“Brass Moth.”

He doesn’t blink. “Yeah? I knew a Moth. Didn’t look quite so good in civvie clothes, but I bet he was twice the soldier.”

You tell your face to smile. “We all have someone’s shoes to fill.”

Koala grunts, fishing a battered lighter out of his suit’s pocket, sliding it across the table to you. You stare at the scratched MSF logo as he retrieves a cigarillo from a silver case, and obligingly light it for him. As you lean towards him to do so, his arm drops from the booth’s back to around your waist. You start the forward count to one hundred this time. Kaz says nothing, but you’ve learned to read where he’s staring, and it’s not at you. 

“I gotta say, Miller. Kinda disappointed that the Boss can’t be assed to see me.” Koala talks with a mouthful of smoke and it curls out lazily like tusks. It smells horrible. You can hear Ocelot, voice bouncing off the metal walls of a room saying _Sometimes you’ll just need to step out of yourself for a minute. Watch it happen to somebody else._

“Well, we can’t always get what we want.” Kaz leans back in his chair, shoulders squared. “He’s busy.”

There’s a pause as a waiter makes it past the bodyguards and distributes coffee to the table. Koala maintains eye contact with Kaz’s shades, waiting until the waiter leaves before speaking. “But you aren’t.”

Kaz gives him a sort of bland smile and blows on his coffee before taking a sip, looking deceptively friendly. “Why don’t you tell me about your PF?”

“Gettin’ down to business kinda fast, aren’t we?” Koala picks up one of the menus on the table and scoots it around. “You want lunch? Hell, dinner? I’ll pay. We got an advance from a client, let me treat my poor old XO.”

“No thanks. I drank too much last night.”

“Hah! You’re turning into a lightweight in your old age, Miller.” The cigarillo’s tip waves in your general direction as he sets it aside. “What about you, honey?”

“I’m watching my figure.”

“Makes two of us.” He winks at you over his coffee cup and you let part of yourself entertain the idea of smashing the porcelain into his face. “Guess it really is right down to business, then.”

Kaz nudges his coffee aside as if clearing the table for conversation, and you try your best to look interested but in over your head as Koala clears his throat. “It’s small, which means we’re mobile. Growth is slow, but that’s how I want it. I like to take time to vet new recruits. Make sure they are who they say they are. Nothing quite like having a traitor in your ranks to make you paranoid, huh?”

“I’d imagine so.” Kaz doesn’t rise to the bait, if that’s what it was, and you try to focus on how glad you are. “You keep up with the times, I’m sure you heard about what happened to Mosquito.”

“Sure. Got big for his boots, got sloppy, got _got._ Did the Boss keep him around? Bet Mosquito was happy to roll over for him.”

“Sounds like you wouldn’t be.”

“Every man’s got a price.” Koala taps the front of his shirt for emphasis. “Mine is independence. I’ve gotten kind of used to being my _own_ boss. And I can’t imagine you’re interested in offering me autonomy under the Diamond Dogs banner.”

He doesn’t wait a beat. “Out of the question.”

Koala shrugs. “I figured I’d extend the courtesy to try. An olive branch, for old time’s sake.”

“It’d be disingenuous of me not to spell it out for you. If you aren’t willing to join us, you won’t be spared if you get in our way.”

“Oh, believe me, I get it. And I don’t plan on it, either. We’re doing just fine for a PF our size, there’s no point in getting greedy.” His arm retreats from around you as Koala spreads his hands, fingers wide, a _hey, I get you_ gesture. “Same goes for you guys, of course. No offense.” The fingers close up, lacing together as his grin spreads back open.

“None taken.” Kaz smiles, showing teeth. “It’s just business, after all.”

The waiter returns to freshen up the coffee and get handwaved away before he can launch into the day’s specials, but it gives the two men time to unlock horns. You’re painfully aware of the space where Koala’s hand isn’t on your waist anymore, as if the threat of its return is a physical thing.

“We always were a couple of cold fishes, weren’t we? Deep down. Underneath all the bullshit.” Koala stubs out the cigarillo, most of it wasted. There’s something rough in his voice that makes you feel like it would be appropriate to watch him carefully, and you do. “I’ll look up at the stars and miss MSF with every bone in my body some nights. Didn’t think anything could hurt like that.”

There, you see maybe part of the man in the photo from the dossier, the accomplishments. Younger and probably not much more pleasant than he is now, but it brings it home that this is a real piece of the past. Someone who had made it out alive, for better or worse. 

You glance across the table and can see that Kaz is staring too, with all the tells of him being riveted to the spot watching. 

“Sorry, Miller. I’ve been kinda prickly, I think I was just… nervous. Feels weird, seeing you again after all this time.” The big man rubs the back of his neck almost bashfully, and you feel a hot rush of shame for how quickly it had lowered your guard. “Hey, how long are you here for? Let’s do something together. Some stupid rich bastard thing, like play golf. God, I don’t even know how. That’d be fun, right?”

A bit of the steel and wire goes out of Kaz’s shoulders, and a half-smile tugs at his mouth. “Sure, Koala.”

“Tomorrow. I’ll get us a couple caddies.” You bring out a smile as he seems to remember you, big hand planting itself between your shoulder blades and rubbing a little. “You too, Moth. You can wear something cute, it’ll be fun.”

Kaz speaks up over his coffee. “Moth’s spoken for. A lunch date tomorrow.”

You’re a million miles too far to feel relief or gratitude, and you keep yourself from glancing at him so it doesn’t look like he caught you off guard. 

“Too bad.” Koala takes your hand and plays with your fingers. “Miller never was one for sharing. You get bored though, you’ll put those Diamond Dog skills to use and sniff out my room, right?”

You laugh politely and the two of them bullshit about the coffee tab while you pilot yourself. Get up, smooth clothes, wait by Kaz as he levers himself out of his seat. Keep smiling, shake hands goodbye, navigate the dining room. 

Neither of you say anything, but the need to get into the elevator and back to the room as fast as possible seems to be shared. You stare at your reflection in the glass panels of the elevator and have the distinct impression you’ve never seen that person before in your life. Is that your face? Your mouth? Your clothes?

Kaz keeps shifting his weight beside you, but he doesn’t gesture or ask for your arm to lean on, and it doesn’t strike you to offer until you’re back in the room. He stops and looks back at you, with an expression you can’t define. “Are you alright?”

“Fine, sir.” You see his mouth open and you cut him off, words rushing out. “I’m going to take a shower. Sorry.”

You don’t grab any clothes, fleeing to the bathroom before he can say anything else. 

You hate it, you hate Koala, you hate yourself for getting so worked up over it. It was just a couple of lewd comments and a hand on your waist, it was nothing. Worse had happened, worse would probably happen. The shower can’t get cold enough, but you force yourself not to stay in too long. Getting sick would be an absolutely pathetic move at this point. You were already on thin ice, hiding in the bathroom and feeling sorry for yourself like this. Ocelot would be ashamed. 

“No,” you say to your reflection, duly, toweling off. “Ocelot doesn’t feel shame.”

Had you done the right thing? Should you have pinned Koala’s cuff to the table with a fork? Would that have been a power move, would it have actually helped Kaz some way? Were you just trying to find a reason to wish you’d done it? Not that you could do it, it had already happened, you had already rolled over and played nice and gotten leered at. 

_This is nothing,_ Ocelot sneers. _You got soft, cooped up on Mother Base. You forgot what it was like to be out in the world, and the instant it stops being fun, you hide._

He isn’t going to shut up until you regain momentum, you suspect, so you wrap a towel around whatever you’re not ready to show Kaz and leave the bathroom to find clothes to wear. The activity helps. You pick out clean clothes, erring on the side of casual. Kaz is out on the patio, but doesn’t bother you before you retreat briefly to the bathroom to get dressed.

When you’re done, the worst is over. The stress of the day is behind you, not anything you can retroactively change, and the mission continues. You putter around the room, adding water to the flowers from last night and shuffling them around a little. Room service had left another daily paper on the desk when they’d made the beds, but both are undisturbed. 

Smoke reaches your nose and your heart pounds errantly before you can identify it as cigarette smoke. It’s fine: Kaz is smoking, out on the patio, an elegant silhouette in the chair against the sunny outdoors. 

It should be relaxing, but there’s something tightly wound in his posture that draws you towards him, anxiously. 

“Sir? Kaz?” There’s that same kind of tenseness as last night, the bottled thunderstorm. You’re too tired to have another fight, and you approach gingerly. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer right away, gaze locked somewhere on the horizon. The cigarette burns slowly.

You can’t think of what’s eating at him, unless he’s finally angry at you for last night. Maybe all the joking over lunch had jogged his memory. You fidget with the hem of your shirt. “Sir, if this is about--”

“Next time he disrespects you like that, put some silverware into his face. Glass him. Something. I don’t care what it costs us. It isn’t worth—“ His hand trembles violently for a moment, before steadying as he stubs out the cigarette on the sidetable’s glass coaster. “Nevermind.”

You leave that where he’s placed it, stupidly surprised. Of all the things on his mind…? 

It feels calming, like the clear space after a deep breath. Relief and gratitude all mixed up. You sit down on the patio next to his chair, and lean your temple against the armrest. The hottest part of the afternoon was over, the residual heat still casting warm air up and around, smelling heavily of the sea.

Kaz’s knuckles brush against the top of your head, just a brief touch. The smell of his cigarette is home, the most popular brand on Mother Base. Cheap and almost sweet.

Homesickness rises up in the back of your throat like bile, entirely too suddenly, and you stare at the hazy band of the sea. “This has been a pretty terrible vacation, hasn’t it.”

“You’re telling me,” Kaz scoffs, gently. “Let’s go out for dinner.”

“I know a good paella place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is turning out to be one of the busiest summers of my life yet, so as always I really truly appreciate your patience and support with this fic!


	6. Day Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a holiday season miracle, an update! We're also in the home stretch: one or two more chapters at most, and then we'll be at the end. 
> 
> Please note: this chapter includes a car crash, so if that's a sensitive point for you, please know it's coming.

You wake up later than you have in a very long time, and the luxury of it doesn’t go to waste.

The room’s patio doors are open and a nice breeze is coming in, carried on lots of sunlight. Another beautiful day. And on your other side, Kaz is still in pajamas, still in bed, but up enough to be reading a newspaper. 

Stretching, you’re reluctant to sit up, or even move your face out of the pillow. Last night had been wonderful, if not tiring. The paella place was busy and so lively, there was a special on local wine that would’ve been cruel not to take advantage of, and you had seen Kaz smile so much. 

He’s currently buried in the newspaper, and goes very still as you reach up to tug down on the top of it, paper crinkling. “Good morning, Moth.”

You smile up at him from your pillow, still feeling recklessly dreamy. “Hi.”

Kaz seems flustered by your tone, and you enjoy it immensely, even while a voice inside you asks you if you’re really, _really_ trying to seduce the Commander? Now? You can remember leaning on his shoulder as the two of you walked back the hotel, even curling up against his back once you were both in bed. You’d asked if it was alright and he’d sounded so disbelieving that you would ask at all, you’d hoped to wake up there. Right between his shoulder blades. 

Someone knocks gently at the door and you move to get up, but Kaz gestures you back down. He speaks with the someone at the door and you’re about to close your eyes and try to go back to sleep when he returns bearing a whole armful of red, and you’re awake immediately. 

“Flowers,” Kaz says, unnecessarily, hefting the large bouquet of roses. “Did you--?”

“No…” 

He makes a strangled noise as he reads the card that came with it, and you try to rub more sleep out of your eyes. You hear Kaz muttering to himself as he dials, holding the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he gives the card to you, _Knew I shouldn’t have left, anything could’ve happened while I was gone,_ and you flip it over to see the message inscribed by the florist. 

_“ Miss you-- BB ”_

“Boss!” Kaz almost shouts into the phone and you startle. “I’m here, what’s going on?”

You’re upright immediately, listening closely as if you had a chance of hearing him through the phone. 

“We got your message, I-- … No, it’s my fault. I lost the iDroid.” Some of the anxiety leaves Kaz, and he sounds more chagrined than worried. “In the ocean. … No, a wave knocked me over.”

You flop back into bed and pull one of the pillows over your face. The relief that nothing at home had gone wrong lets you relax and just listen to one half of the conversation. 

“Are you sure everything’s alright? … Yeah, it was yesterday. He’s an asshole, but I think he knows to stay out of our way. We’ve got one more thing to do here and then we can come home.”

Pulling the pillow off your face, you find that Kaz was looking at you while he talked. You raise your eyebrows and mouth _Golf?_ at him, and he scowls at your smile. 

“It’s not a commitment we can’t break if you want us back early. … I don’t really care about that. … Yeah, I know you know. Alright. Thanks for calling, Boss. Alright.” Kaz pauses before he hands you the receiver. “Don’t get your hopes up, it’s Ocelot.”

“Oh.” You sit up in bed as Kaz leaves for the bathroom to get dressed, and try to force yourself into being as alert and professional sounding as possible. “Good morning, sir?”

 _“It must be, if you’ve so thoroughly forgotten to check in for so long.”_ He says it with amusement, but that’s never an indicator of his actual mood.

“I’m sorry—a lot happened after we lost the iDroid, but that doesn’t excuse anything.” You duck your head and twist the phone cord around your fingers, acutely aware of Kaz pretending not to listen. “Nothing eventful, but—“

_“So a lot happened, but it was a lot of nothing? Vacation making you lazy, Moth?”_

“No, sir, I just— I feel like I’m digging my grave deeper, sir, can I just report to you about the meeting with Koala?”

There’s a pause that probably means he’s stroking his moustache or looking particularly smug. _“Go ahead.”_

“He said he was here on business, and a lot of other hot air. I think he understands where he stands in relation with us, but he’s a bit arrogant.”

_“As expected. Did Miller lose his temper?”_

“Not to Koala’s face, no, sir. Maybe not at all.”

_“You’d know it if you saw it. What’s that commitment you have today?”_

“Koala wanted to play golf with the Commander,” you say, and you hear Kaz hiss your name and retreat fully to the bathroom in disgust.

Ocelot gives you one of his most authentic chuckles, and you struggle not to roll your eyes. _“Did he, now? Well, you’ll all have fun, I’m sure.”_

“Are we coming home after today, sir? The operation schedule gave us a week, but there’s not much else to do.”

_“You’ll know when we decide. Keep Miller busy, see if you can’t find out what Koala’s business here was. I don’t imagine it was anything that would interest us, but better to know than not.”_

“Yes, sir.”

 _“Be careful, Moth,”_ Ocelot says, his tone over the phone sounding fully concentrated for maybe the first time. You listen. _“You might be in the home stretch, but that doesn’t mean you get to relax.”_

“Understood, sir.”

He hangs up, and you take a moment to stare at the receiver in your hand. Were you relaxing, getting sloppy? You were leaving Kaz alone today, even if there was no reason to suspect Koala would do anything stupid. 

Hanging up, you can’t bring yourself to lay back down in the bed. It feels too soft, like you might fall back asleep if you weren’t careful. You should get up, see if you can’t get in contact with Martinique about that lunch that Kaz had constructed yesterday. Always better to follow through with the truth, and you could make up being rude to her, too.

To keep yourself busy, you find another container for the flowers. It’s charming to think about the Boss choosing this particular way to get your attention again. They look good next to the other bouquet you’d bought earlier, although Kaz makes a little face as he leaves the bathroom, dressed for the day. “We’re keeping those?”

“Not every day the Boss sends you flowers.”

“He could’ve just called the hotel.” Kaz says it with exasperation, but you still watch him gently pick a rose from the bouquet and hold it to his face thoughtfully.

 _Kiss him again,_ your brain whispers, but you have morning breath and espionage to continue. “Sir, I was thinking—“

“Did Ocelot give you shit?” he asks, suddenly and disapprovingly. _“We_ didn’t lose the iDroid, I did. You know he’ll use any excuse to nag you.”

“He brought up a fair point, sir. Is it a good idea for us to be separated today, especially with Koala involved?” You try not to sound anxious about it, and the thought occurs to you that this might come off as clingy. 

Kaz shifts his weight around, as if he knows it’s a good point, but doesn’t want to admit it. “It won’t be for long. I don’t like it, but I like the way he treats you even less.”

You blink, surprised. “The way he treats me?”

“It reminds me of something. That you don’t need to worry about,” he adds, before you can ask. “He’s irritating, but he won’t show off as much if you aren’t there. I’ll survive.”

“I-- what?”

“You heard me.” Kaz’s smile makes you light up in response, despite your own worries. “Anyway, let’s enjoy our respective days out. Vacation’s almost over, right?”

“Right.” You affirm it like a promise, and reach out reflexively to smooth his shirt collar. Mother Base is waiting for you with open arms. “Do you know how to play golf?”

“It can’t be that hard.” 

 

The hotel staff doesn’t even ask you why you want Martinique’s number, and you’re glad Kaz has already headed downstairs to meet Koala: he would’ve heard her excited voice through the phone and no doubt said something very smart and very mean. 

She’s absolutely ecstatic about hearing from you, something about going out to lunch with Mercedes, a local market, her enthusiasm for it all is so equally blinding that you can’t discern what the highlight is supposed to be. 

But she’s ready to go soon and it doesn’t leave you a lot of time to dwell on how Kaz is doing at golf, which you appreciate. The twins greet you at the door to your room, dressed in complementary clothes, the more colorful parts of Martinique’s as accents on Mercedes. You wonder if they really plan every day’s outfits to match, or if it’s just a kind of effortless rich person thing. 

Nevertheless, it gives you a chance to meet Mercedes properly: he kisses your hand in greeting and Martinique rolls her eyes and grabs your other hand to pull you along, and you smile despite yourself. A whole day of this would be exhausting, but not unwelcome after all the stress of yesterday. 

Mercedes drives the three of you out from the hotel to another part of the town you hadn’t visited yet—a few more clubs here and there, but mainly more expensive restaurants still handling late afternoon lunch service. Everything is beautiful in the same cultivated way the hotel is: flowers, white-washed clean buildings, only the best views of the shore. 

“So where is Albert today?” Martinique asks after you’ve been seated at an outdoor patio table, sipping a cocktail through a bright straw. “He seems very busy for someone on vacation.”

“Golf, actually.”

“He’ll have to let me know how the course here is,” Mercedes says, leaning back and stretching his legs out in the afternoon sun. “Martine’s been practicing to try and keep up with me, we should have a rematch.”

You watch him and resist the urge to raise your eyebrows. He really does resemble Martinique in almost every way, although their energies couldn’t be more different. Even as you watch, she’s folding her cloth napkin into tighter and tighter squares for something to keep her hands busy, while he looks like he could fall asleep right where he is. “I consider myself lucky to have kept up with her in tennis.”

“Oh, you can’t say that, _you’re_ the one of us who knows how to actually play!” She grins at you, before leaning closer. “Morgan, I’m supposed to keep this a secret, but I wanted to invite you up to our cottage. And Albert, of course! Could I call him Albie?”

 _Albie?_ You buy time by taking a sip of your drink. “Cottage?”

“It’s supposed to be a secret because it might need a bit fixing up,” Mercedes answers, giving Martinique a sour look. “Our family owns it, part of our visit here was to check on it.”

His sister goes back and forth between the two of you, still caught up in the idea. “It’s right on the sea, it’s got the most wonderful view—it really isn’t far, we could drive up and see if it’s ready, couldn’t we?”

“They might have other plans, Martine. Slow down.”

“Oh--! Do you? Are you leaving soon?” She looks at you with big eyes, forlornly. 

“We might be. But I’m sure it couldn’t hurt to ask if Albert’s interested.” You can’t imagine Kaz enjoying being cooped up with the twins in unfamiliar territory, but there’s no sense in hurting Martinique’s feelings about it. 

“See? We’ll settle it later.” Mercedes sits up and seems to finally animate as your lunch arrives, and the conversation turns to that. The twins get into an argument over whether or not seafood counts as vegetarian, and if fish have feelings or consciousness. You stay out of it and try to keep your thoughts on the here and now, imagining how golf is going somewhere else on the island. 

Lunch ends and Mercedes takes a brief business call, leaving the two of you looking out at the sea. 

“I hope I didn’t embarrass you, yesterday.” Martinique says finally, plinking at her glass of water with her fingernails. “You were busy but I just rushed right up.”

“I’m sorry I had to be so brusque. There was someone we were supposed to meet, and I didn’t want to be late. I can get anxious about that.”

“No, you know, I completely understand!” She meets your eyes and takes your hand across the table. “Mercedes is the same way, he’s always working, even when he’s not. But you’ll try to relax, won’t you?” 

You smile, a little tiredly. “It is a vacation, after all.”

She beams at you, and Mercedes returns to shepherd you both back into the car. He picks up the tab for lunch, too, and politely refuses any kind of reimbursement, even though you have Requisition’s cash burning a hole in your pocket. 

The afternoon’s getting late and the air is pleasantly warm: Martinique’s in the back seat with you as Mercedes drives, and she’s talking up the cottage when everything stops, or rather, goes too fast too quickly.

You don’t even know that it’s happened until after, nothing in the moment registering besides the force of it, the sudden glitter of broken glass, the sudden and deafening noise. Martinique’s arm hits you hard enough to make your nose bleed, and you hang loosely against the seatbelt for a moment, still rattled around too fiercely to move. 

When you can, you look at the car that slammed into yours: it pins the driver’s side door and has buckled in the door next to Martinique, but she’s not pinned. You feel in one piece, if not shaken around. The driver of the other car is struggling with the airbag, but movement from the street beyond it draws your attention. Two men, very big, both armed. Even moving slowly, your brain identifies them from brunch yesterday, the casually placed muscle near Koala. They move to draw beads on the car, and your survival instinct kicks in. 

You can’t get to Mercedes in the front seat, but you can get to Martinique. She’s looking around blearily, too stunned to cry but clearly on the edge of it, and you wrestle out of your seatbelt and start attacking hers. 

“Morgan?” She asks, loudly. Her hearing must be scrambled from the accident. “Morgan, what are you—”

You grab her head and shove it downwards, following in suit right before a bullet smashes through the last intact window on the other side of the car. Martinique’s whimpering scream stops as you shove a hand against her mouth and whisper _No screaming, follow me, RUN,_ before you grab her hand and twist the door handle with your free arm. It takes a kick to get it to spring open from the twisted car frame, but it does and you’re out. 

More gunfire smacks into the car behind you as you run, taking the first street turn you can find as fast as you can go. Martinique’s hold on your hand is hot iron but she’s not dragging, she’s keeping up with you. The crash had spun you around, but the sun’s in the same place and you’ve gotten more familiar with Ibiza, enough to know which way the hotel is in. 

_Get back to the hotel. Hide. Find out what Koala wants with me. Me? What about Kaz? Oh, God._

You hear police and ambulance sirens approaching, but you don’t stop. There are lots of alleys and twists and turns to make, and you get yourself thoroughly lost before allowing yourself to slow down. There’s no sign that you’ve been followed, and you even try doubling back to make sure, but there’s nothing. They hadn’t been expecting you to run. 

Martinique’s crying had started along the way and doesn’t stop until you get back to the hotel, using a service entrance with an easily-broken lock to get in. Not subtle, but you won’t be able to stay there long anyway. You still have your room key, and you lock it behind you.

The room, at least, is untouched. Nothing out of place, no sign of anyone having been back while you were gone. You can’t focus on one thing too long, everything wildly spinning out of control. Where do you start? Where did Kaz go, why didn’t you get the address? 

Martinique collapses on the bed and sobs momentarily into a pillow, and all you can do is watch. It’s about how you feel, but there’s too much iron holding you upright. Ocelot’s mere presence in your life would shame you away from that kind of weakness—but she’s not a Diamond Dog, and her whole life has just changed drastically. Maybe she’s got the right idea, crying.

The phone rings and you jump out of your skin. Martinique’s head pops up from the pillow and she stares at it, shocked. 

Crossing the room, you curse quietly for not closing the patio doors before you left: they’re open, anyone with a scope could be looking in here right now, that’s probably how whoever’s calling knew to call--

 _“Hey, sweetheart. Good thinkin’, going back to the hotel, I’m glad I caught you.”_ Koala says it so casually that it doubles the cold going down your spine and the heat going up your cheeks. You want to leap through the phone and kill him. _“Moth? You there?”_

“Yes, sir.” It’s a default, you want to kick yourself. 

_“What was it Miller said to me yesterday? ‘Just business,’ right?”_ He says it like he’s conferring with someone away from the phone, and you snatch that fact close to your heart. _“So, about that. Can you guess why I’m calling?”_

“No, sir.”

_“You’re just being polite. That’s okay, you can listen. So—follow me on this—I’m here on a mission, my PF undertook an assassination job, no big deal, nothing fancy. Worked out nice with your schedule too, but now, it’s lookin’ an awful lot to me like you’re trying to grab a job out from under me.”_

For a moment, all you can do is blink, stupidly. It doesn’t make sense, but then, it does. 

They had been there to kill Martinique and Mercedes. The car crash got Mercedes, and the gunmen were there to finish the job. Koala thinks you want to kill Martinique yourself and pick up the reward for it. “I’m not,” you croak. “We’re not.”

_“Oh, kiddo, I know, it’s okay—just a mistake, maybe you thought it’d be easier than it was—hey, is the Hatchet girl still alive? You’ve got her with you?”_

Martinique is folded up on the bed, knees tucked up, head in her arms. You look away. “Yes.”

_“Perfect! Just so happens I’ve got Miller with me, so it sounds like we’ve got a good trade to make, right?”_

Your knuckles are white on the phone’s receiver. “Yes.”

_“Hey, he’s giving me the stink-eye over here. Can you believe he pulled a gun on me? I’m not mad about it, would’ve done the same. Still gutsy! A show of good will, here he is.”_

The other line goes silent for a moment and there’s indistinct speech in the background. Your heart pounds loudly and you wish it would just shut up for a moment, you’re so desperate to hear anything from Kaz.

 _“He knew all my tricks,”_ he sighs, and you have to bite your lip not to shout. _“Sorry, Moth.”_

“Commander—” Where do you even start?

He doesn’t let you, sounding decisive, almost exasperated. _“This is a vacation, isn’t it? We’re supposed to be having fun. I don’t care what it costs us.”_

You open your mouth to express something, anything to relieve the distress you feel at having caused all this, but your brain shuts off before you can. _Next time he disrespects you like that,_ the Kaz in your memory says, silhouetted against afternoon sun. Cigarette smoke, his touch light on the top of your head. Something from deep in his heart choking him as he talks. _Put some silverware into his face. Glass him. Something. I don’t care what it costs us._

You swallow. “I understand, sir.”

 _“See you soon.”_ He says it with a kind of regret, and then there’s an absence on the phone that gives way to Koala again.

_“He’s alright, you’re alright, everything’s good? I’m not trying to interrupt your good time, Moth, you know that, right? This is just business.”_

You know you should be nice to him, should play it off as casually as you can, but you’re still strung tight with adrenaline and you just can’t care about it. “Where do you want to meet?”

_“There’s a dock about two miles up the shore from the hotel. Let’s meet there tonight. You want more directions?”_

“No. Thank you. Is there a road?”

 _“Yeah, just off the main highway, there’s a sign. You bring the rich girl, Miller and me will have a couple drinks waiting for you.”_ Koala pauses, before starting again, slowly and earnestly. _“This does not have to turn into anything difficult, okay? You hear me, Moth? I like you, I like Miller, I just want to do my job and go home. Same as you.”_

“I know, sir. I’ll be there.” Ocelot whispers behind your ear. You let out a fake sob that feels real. “Don’t hurt him, please. I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I _promise—”_

He melts. _“Oh, sweetheart, I would never. Don’t you worry about that, okay? You know the time, the place, we’ll take care of everything. You and Miller can be home in time for dinner. On my honor, okay?”_

“Okay.”

_“I’ll see you then.”_

The line goes dead in your hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is around 80% done, so the next update is going to be much sooner than I've been in the past. Thank you so much for your patience with this story, I'm so excited to wrap it up with you all!


	7. Day Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s definitely murder in this chapter! Nothing I would classify as gory, but it is there, so please don’t let it surprise you.

When you look up, Martinique is staring at you, eyes huge. You want to snap at her—what? What’s she got to stare at? This is all her fault, it’s her fault Kaz is trapped and—a hostage, and it’s your fault for dragging her out of that car and getting involved, but she was still born rich and stupid and this wasn’t supposed to happen—

 _It’s not her fault._ Your inner voice isn’t Ocelot, for once. It’s the Boss. You close your eyes. There’s nothing to be done now but deal with the facts as they are, here in the present.

“Morgan?” Martinique whispers, voice cracked from crying. 

You give her a warning look and she mouths _Sorry_ before putting a hand over her mouth. 

The facts, as they are, here in the present: you know where Kaz will be. You know where Koala will be. 

You set the phone down in the cradle and immediately pick it back up again, dredging up all the emergency information mnemonics to dial the number for the offshore support unit. It rings twice before an unfamiliar voice speaks up on the other end. 

_“Cornaceae Florists, how may I help?”_

Your voice is steady despite everything, and you slip back into training and code much more easily than you would’ve thought. “Hello, I was wondering about the price of a single long-stem rose.” You weren’t sure why a rose was appropriate code for a helicopter, but here you were. 

_“Would you need it delivered?”_

“Yes, please.”

 _“I’m certain we could accommodate that.”_ A pause, presumably note-taking. _“What time frame and destination?”_

Too soon and it would draw attention and probably fire, and you aren’t about to get a good pilot killed by panicking. You don’t have any idea where you might end up after all of this, or what kind of firepower Koala’s troops have on them. “Can I call again when I need it?”

_“Of course. We’re also having a special on arrangements and bouquets, would you like to place any larger orders?”_

_Do you want us to come in guns blazing?_ You want to say yes, you want to see Pequod drop off the Boss and DD fully cannoned up, you want to see the combat team tearing through the beach surf in an overly expensive jeep, but that’s a hammer for a scalpel’s job. That would get Kaz killed out of fear or spite. 

“No, thank you. I know the sale lasts for a while. Can I give you my card information over the phone?”

_“Standing by.”_

You rattle off the sixteen digit authentication code while you start making a list of everything in the room you’ll need. 

_“Perfect. I’ll have your order ready to go. Thank you for shopping with us.”_

You hang up before you can change your mind and take a deep breath. The patio doors are still open from this morning, and you shut them with a finality. The room is left dim and immediately stuffy. 

“Why did you order flowers?” Martinique asks piteously, starting to sound on the verge of more tears or even hysterics. 

You’ll have to deal with her eventually, and now will be better than later. She’s been remarkably resilient considering how terrible things are, but right now all you can think about is Kaz on the other end of that phone. 

“Martinique.” You settle down on the bed beside her. “I’d like you to tell me, truthfully, that you weren’t in on any of this.”

“In on…?”

“I just want to get you back to your brother and away from all of this, but I don’t want to have to watch my back every second of it.” You’re lying to her. You’ll be watching your back whether or not she swears loyalty to the Boss in front of you and signs in blood. Kaz is in enemy hands, everyone on this island is a fair game until he’s safe. “Do you understand?”

Her face crumples and she starts to cover her ears. “No. No, I _don’t,_ and I want this to stop, and I wish you were half as scared as I am!” 

“Martinique.” You seize her hand and force her to look at you as you thread your fingers together, giving yourself the angle to snap her pointer all the way back. Her eyes are huge and white in the dark room. Ocelot speaks out of your mouth. “Someone tried to kill you today. But if you lie to me, I will be the worst of your problems.”

“I understand. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You let go, standing up and giving her space. She curls in on herself immediately, knees drawn up and head down like a kid again. Part of you feels bad for scaring her, but you’ll apologize once Kaz is back on Mother Base and scolding everyone, safe and sound. Preferably scolding you for letting this happen. 

The distance and memory of home reminds you of the thing you hadn’t really wanted to confront. The logical thing to do, the practical thing to do, the thing you were trained to do, is hand Martinique over. 

You like her, but she isn’t family. She isn’t a Diamond Dog. Kaz is… well, he’s Kaz, and even if he weren’t Kaz, he was the mission, and the mission takes priority. Everything else in service to the mission. 

He probably won’t kill Kaz, not while he knows the Boss is out there and would come for him if he crosses the Diamond Dogs. He might change his mind once you’ve shown up for the trade and demand ransom money. He might even just genuinely go through with the trade and let you go on your way, but… 

But it means looking Koala in the eye as you hand over Martinique to be killed. 

You start overturning chairs and lamps as you retrieve the useful equipment left in the room. One of the sidearms is missing—the one Kaz must’ve taken with him. There’s still one left, and you can feel Martinique watching you as you screw on the suppressor. She makes a lot of eye contact with you, and for a moment part of your training gives way, and you sit back down on the bed with her. “I’m not going to hurt you, Martinique.”

She gives you a doubtful look that you can’t fault her for. “You.. sort of just said you would.”

“I know, but I’m—” _What, trained by a Russian cowboy to do unspeakable things for the loyalty that lives in my guts? Scared to death?_ You take a deep breath. “I’m not going to hand you over to the men who tried to kill you. I have… some ideas of what I’m going to do instead, but I need you to trust me, and help me get—my husband back.”

“Are you spies?” She whispers, before seeming to brush it off and taking your hand in hers. The one you’d threatened to break her fingers with. “No, nevermind. I’m—I don’t know why this is happening, and I’m sorry. I trust you, Morgan, but please—I just want to go home. I want to see Mercedes again.” Her eyes fill with tears and her hands shake, and you feel a little bit terrible. She says your name and her brother’s deliberately, like she can convince you she’s a real person with connections to this world, humanizing herself. Maybe she really does think you’ll kill her.

There’s the very likely chance that Mercedes is dead, but you don’t need to rub that kind of salt in her wounds. If she hasn’t considered it, you won’t bring it up. 

You squeeze her hands. “I’m going to do what I can to get you somewhere safe. We need to get cleaned up, though. Will you stay here and clean up while I go downstairs?” Her mouth opens to protest and you cut her off gently. “I have to rent a car. That’s it, then I’ll be right back up.”

“Okay. I can do that. You’ll be right back?” She nods to herself and smooths her hair, looking around like she’s getting her bearings. 

“I promise. I’ve got some clothes that’ll fit you, if you want to change.”

Martinique just nods again, and you leave her to pick through your closet while you go downstairs to rent a car. Other than being sweaty and dusty, you don’t feel particularly out of place. You could blame it on hiking, or something.

Nobody says anything, apparently used to disheveled tourists. Renting a car from the lobby in the hotel is easier than you would’ve thought, and you’re back upstairs by the time Martinique has finished washing up. She’s sitting on the bed when you get back, and you don’t have to wonder why you trusted her not to run while you were gone. 

You reach out your hand to Martinique and she takes it, looking you in the eye. 

 

A local map stashed in the car’s glovebox makes finding the right road along the shore easy, and you set out without much waiting. The sun had set some time ago and the night seems to be slipping away even faster, but you force yourself not to rush. The farther you get from the hotel and the city, the darker it seems to get. Street lamps peter out and then stop all together, and the road’s paving gets continuously rougher. 

After passing a certain point on the map, you turn the car’s headlights off and drive slowly, eventually spotting the sign pointing to a sideroad that leads to the dock. Pulling into the bushes on the side of the road, you shut off the engine and sit in the darkness for a moment. 

“What should I do?” Martinique asks, anxiously.

“Get into the backseat and keep your head down. This shouldn’t take long.” You triple-check the sidearm’s suppressor and clip, but it’s the same as it was at the hotel. You have no excuses not to go. You look at her and try not to wince. “If someone gets to the car before I get back, make a lot of noise. As much as you can, and I’ll come running.”

“Okay.” She nods again, chin and mouth trembling with tears again, and you wish you could do more to reassure her. “Morgan— good luck. Is it alright to wish you good luck? It won’t jinx things?”

“No, Martinique.”

She locks eyes with you one more time before crawling into the backseat. “Martine. It’s what my family calls me.” 

“Okay. See you soon, Martine.” 

You open the door and step out into the night before you can feel any worse, and shut the car door quietly behind you. 

 

It’s surprising no one saw your car coming up the road, but you post yourself low in the bushes off the side of the road and wait. The way time passes is infuriating—it could’ve been five minutes or two hours until you hear the crunching pace of footsteps on the road down to the dock, but either way you’re feeling cramped and wound up extremely tight. The gun is warm in your hand because it hasn’t left your grip since you exited the car, and it feels like an extension of your arm. 

The night is lit mainly by the stars and moon, but your eyes have adjusted and you can see him clearly. No battle dress, the same tall and thick build as the men you’d seen with Koala the other morning. He could just be a big man in a casual suit on a business trip if it weren’t for the outline of a handgun through his coat jacket and the radio attached to his shoulder. 

He notices the car and stops his approach, and you tense, ready to rush him if he moves too quickly. As you start to creep out of the brush you watch him pull out a cigarette and start to reach for the radio, and you press the attack, running the last few steps. 

Turning, he’s not fast enough and he ends up with both hands held empty in front of him and the barrel of your gun’s suppressor pressed against his temple. The unlit cigarette falls out of his mouth and he moves very carefully and slowly to make sure you see that he isn’t going to try to go for the radio or his gun. “How many of you are there?”

The whites of his eyes are bright even in the darkness. “Six. Seven! With me it’s seven! Or—or eight, with Koala, Jesus, hey—”

“Did you drive here?”

“No, there’s—there’s a boat at the dock, we’re working out of a harbor across the island— you’re a Diamond Dog, aren’t you?”

You are, and it reminds you of who else is. Some of your closest friends had been held at gunpoint by the Boss. He saw something in them and spared them.

You put a quiet round through the temple of the man at the end of your gun and catch him before he can fall with his full weight to the ground, lowering him slowly. Something warm on your face has already started to cool, and you pat him down. The handgun, a box cutter, an extra clip, cigarettes, the radio. Gum. 

Maybe he could’ve been a Diamond Dog too. Big Boss would’ve known, and he would’ve been prepared and strong enough to tranq him or choke him out and take him home, but you aren’t the Boss. You weren’t trained by the Boss, not to make those kinds of calls or have that kind of mercy. Ocelot wasn’t interested in helping you spare men who might be good, who might be friends. He wants you to continue when bodies and souls stand in front of the mission, to overcome obstacles. 

One obstacle is down, and seven more are left. 

You take the radio from the body and tune in as you drag it into the scrubby bushes on the side of the road. It’s quiet, not a lot of chatter. 

Coming back to the car, Martinique looks like a deer in the headlights as you turn the radio on, watching your every move. You put a finger to your lips to signal her silence and tune to a music station, before activating the radio and holding it close to the speakers. 

You’d been hoping for a reaction eventually, but it turns out to be instantaneous. 

_“James, are you listening to music again? I’m gonna shove that cassette player up your ass.”_

_“He can’t hear you, man. Go tell him his radio’s on, I don’t wanna listen to this Cindy Lauper shit all night.”_

You leave the radio in the car, before placing yourself in the brush. The trees around here are all short and twisted by the sea wind, so you stay close to the ground and wait. 

The man coming to investigate crunches up the side road from the dock with a kind of weary acceptance, and shines a flashlight around the area. The beam of it hits the car, and you’re very proud of Martinique for not being visible from the windows. 

He cusses quietly to himself and draws a handgun, keeping it level with the flashlight as he approaches the car. You slip out of the brush silently and creep up behind as he mutters to himself: _Jamesy, you shithead, what’d you do now? Why didn’t you call this in?_ Something like a shudder goes through his whole body in a split second as you put the suppressor’s barrel against the back of his skull, but he doesn’t move. 

“Lower your weapon.” You watch him slowly lower the handgun and spread both hands apart, keeping his finger off the trigger. You take it from him.

Obstacle two tells you the positions of the five other men in the trees and the dunes. He uses their names, which is a touching act of concern on his part, but ultimately pointless. The locations are good, and it makes navigating the dunes easier. You have more energy to worry about being quiet.

Three and four are the first sniper and spotter pair, having a smoke break. Their vantage point is back towards the city and the hotel, and they should’ve spotted you driving down the road. It’s what Ocelot would call sloppy if he were there, and he is. Through your mouth he confirms the position of the last three obstacles and takes the scope off the rifle before he leaves two more bodies. 

You wait until you find the other sniper pair to actually look through it, since they’re the ones facing the beach. The dock is there, the boat is still moored, and you can see both Kaz and Koala waiting. Beach chairs set up on the dock. A cooler full of beers. Five makes a break for it when you shoot six, but he doesn’t get far. It’s a favor in disguise: the body rolling down the underbrush on a dune draws seven, who doesn’t report the noise in to Koala, just stands there and calls to Danny that if he’s fucking around trying to prank him again, he’s gonna punch his lights out.

He sees you and he doesn’t seem to think to scream about it, just stands for a moment with his mouth open. He raises his hands to surrender, but Ocelot doesn’t take prisoners. He has a very big knife on his belt, which you take just in case. 

Confirming once more with the scope that Koala’s still on the dock, you head back through the dunes to the road, and follow it back to the car. It’s still quiet, no lights. You unlock it and get in, sending Martinique scrambling a bit in the backseat like she hadn’t seen you coming. “Are you alright, Martine?”

Martinique moans a little bit, and you can only guess you’ve gotten more blood on you. Maybe she can smell the gun discharges. Either way, she doesn’t say anything about it, and instead curls herself into a tight ball on the floor of the car in the back seat. It’s unnecessary to tell her to stay there, so you don’t. You don’t want to talk to her right now, and she doesn’t want to talk to you. 

You keep the lights off as you drive down the road to the dock, navigating by the crushed white shells and rock that pave the way. The moon’s starting to set, everything that isn’t black going gray and blue around you. 

Leaving the car parked on the road but still out of sight from the shore, you head into the dunes and treeline again, using the moon to help you chart your way. You need to get far enough down the shore that you won’t be obvious when you get into the water, but not so far that you exhaust yourself by the time you get to the dock. You triple check the gun in your shoulder holster, and that the knife you’d taken is secure in it as well.

It was brisk when you got out of the car, but the water feels shockingly cold at night when you’re keyed up like this. You concentrate on acclimating quickly, keeping your body moving and taking a moment to submerge where it’s shallow to get used to cold lungs. 

_You won’t win any triathlons,_ Ocelot says in your memories, hunkered down by where you’re clinging to the side of the training pool, floating under the vast umbrellas and struts of Mother Base. _Yet._ His boot pushes your forehead back under the surf and you swim with the shore’s current, back towards the dock. The rhythm is easy, the goal is clear and grows ever nearer, and you obsess about the shoulder holster. There was no way the gun wouldn’t get wet, but it should be alright. If it’s not, that’s why you took the knife. 

You’re struggling not to gasp when you make it to the dock, the barnacles on the wood digging into your fingers. The boat nearby floats like a shining singular bone in the dim morning light, and the hull is too slick for you to climb up the side of it. Bobbing above the surface, you can hear the bass tones of Koala’s voice, but not the individual words. 

Creeping onto the stern of the boat where there’s a small platform for swimmers, you can’t believe how cold the air feels, but your heart is thundering as you make it onto the solid surface of the dock. Your fingers are wet and shake as you fumble with the shoulder holster, but there isn’t any sudden hurry. Koala checks his watch and stands up from his chair to pace a bit, facing the dunes. A radio’s in his hands. 

The ocean must be so loud for him not to hear you as you step forward with bare and freezing feet. There’s a gun with a wood inlaid grip tucked down the back of his pants, one with ammo you _know_ will be dry. 

He sighs to Kaz in front of you, like a huge, dense mountain. “Your Moth sure is fashionably late, and my guys sure are suspiciously quiet. I don’t suppose you two had any kind of secret code going, huh?”

You take the gun out of his belt and raise it in the two paces backwards, almost the same motion, and everything is very slow and very clear. “We did.”

Koala’s hands lift up and you keep your aim centered on the middle of his head, and then his face, as he turns around very slowly to face you. The only light out here is from the interior of the boat, yellow and fake amid the dark morning. 

“I’ll be damned,” He says, very quiet. His expression isn’t fear, but reverence. 

Your aim is still a two-handed grip, the unfamiliar shape of the handgun feeling unwelcome. He should be afraid of you. “Is Commander Miller booby trapped?” 

“No. No, he is not. I didn’t think—I just didn’t think you’d try anything, honey,” Koala confesses. Beside him, Kaz stands up out of his chair and steadies himself with his cane. You glance at him quickly enough to let him know you’re listening, and he nods. “But you did, huh? You didn’t just try, you did it. And I don’t have any backup coming, do I?”

“Are there more than seven?”

“No. You really want this job that bad?”

“This is about Miller.” You’re so wound up and so cold and so angry that it’s all you’ve got. This was about Miller, this was about the moment he decided he could use Kaz as a bargaining chip. This is also about Koala’s hands on your waist, his hand holding yours, his voice on the phone. 

Koala’s hands start to lower, to gesture slowly. He makes constant eye constant with you. “Sweetheart—” 

You squeeze the trigger and his chin jerks upwards as the back of his head flies out and lands in the ocean. His body falls like a sack of bricks to the dock, one leg sliding off the edge and hanging there. The noise was very loud and over very quickly.

The cold catches up to you, and your stiffly lower your arms, elbows almost locked. Kaz approaches, taking your hands in his and helping your fingers uncurl from the gun’s grip. “Do you want to keep the gun, Moth?”

“No.”

“Alright.” He finishes the job for you and tosses the gun into the water with a _plunk,_ almost the same noise as when he threw the coaster into the pool. The memory squeezes a wordless sound out of your mouth that Kaz takes as distress, gathering your hands up again and blowing his breath onto them. You blink salt water out of your eyes and surface a second time. Ocelot’s complaining that the gun was useful, yours is wet, you might still need one, but his voice is growing fainter. 

You refocus on Kaz, who has stood with you on this dock for what feels like a long time, very patiently. “Are you hurt, sir?”

“They took my sidearm, but that was it. Guess he figured I wasn’t a threat.” He says it wearily. 

“I called,” you say, before having to start again, still warming back up. “Called offshore support. They know we need a chopper, we just have to get to a phone. Let them know.”

“Good thinking.” Kaz puts a hand between your shoulder blades and it seems to call you back down to earth, where you feel you’re being very unprofessional.

“I’m sorry, sir, I—if anything happened to you, I—”

“I know. You did a good job. Did you drive here?”

“It’s parked on the road.”

“Let’s go.”

You really, deeply appreciate Kaz taking the lead. Everything is a blur until you see the car, and you remember that you’re supposed to be the one taking care of him. Martinique’s face is a little ghost in the window and Kaz leads you to lean against the side of the car while he talks with her, quietly. 

Breathing is easier and you feel yourself starting to dry out, still salty from the ocean. You should’ve thought to bring other clothes, but the time for regrets is over. All you have to do is get to a phone, and you can go home. _Why did I lose it so badly? Should I not have killed him? Did I handle this the wrong way?_

“Moth,” Kaz touches your cheek and you wonder how he can see anything in this light with shades on. “It’s time to go.”

“I’ll drive.” He looks doubtful, and it helps you thaw yourself. “No, I can do it. I need to. Where are we going?”

“There’s a cottage Martinique’s family owns farther north on this island. They were planning on staying there, so the power’s been turned on. She says there’s a phone, and it should be remote enough that our chopper won’t draw much attention.” 

That checks out with what you knew from earlier in the day—had it really just been today? Was it yesterday by now? It feels like a hundred years ago-- so you climb in and let Kaz deal with Martinique. Yes, you’re both fine, no, no one’s following us, no, buckle your seatbelt. The two of them puzzle out the map and the directions to the cottage while you focus on driving, and the familiarity of it centers you. The headlights on the dark road ahead, the stars visible through the trees. 

You listen to Martinique’s directions and it seems unreal that just earlier today you might’ve driven this way in the sunlight. As hard as you try to hold onto the various turns and signposts it takes to get to one of the northern peaks of the island, they slip away. You find yourself looking at yourself in the rearview mirror and startling, as if you hadn’t expected to see someone there. 

Kaz seems to notice this and keeps the car filled up with talking to Martinique. It doesn’t leave you any room to slip farther into the strange limbo where you know Ocelot and all your obstacles are waiting. 

Gravel crunches under the tires and the headlights suddenly illuminate the front stairway leading up to a small, tidily-constructed house. The shrubs and flowers camouflaging it partly into the scenery look a bit overgrown, but everything’s still visible. 

Martinique is first out of the car, but she still stands and waits for both you and Kaz, absolutely humming with nervous energy. She grabs your hand and holds on with a strength you wouldn’t have thought she has, and you try to squeeze back as the front door of the cottage opens and Mercedes looks out, a bandage over his left eye and nose. 

Kaz makes a noise in the back of his throat but you don’t have time to wonder, already jerked along with Martinique as she runs, faster than you and with the kind of desperation you hope you never feel in your life. _“MERCÉ!”_ She’s so loud and crying so much, and you’re probably banging every one of your toes as the two of you hit the stairway.

Something like a spiderweb pulls at your leg and you look down to see a single thread of light stretched taut over Martinique’s calf, and you freeze. The whole world shakes you with light and fire, and you have no way of knowing how long it’s been when your eyes open back up. 

Your ears are ringing but you can hear shouting underneath that, you can feel half of it, Kaz’s body and sound surrounding you. You thought you’d heard him shout before but this feels like a true roar, _THIS IS MY PARTNER YOU SON OF A BITCH,_ and you worry faintly for them before you realize it’s you. It’s you and you’ve been blown up. 

The other shouting is hard to hear and even harder to identify, but it has to be Mercedes. “It wasn’t supposed to _happen_ like this! I only meant for her—what are you _doing,_ who _are_ you?”

Kaz’s face swims above you and you reach for him, the whole earth underneath you rocking. There’s the dancing light of a fire somewhere nearby, and all you can smell is smoke and concrete dust. Kaz’s hand is levering you up, trying to get at your shoulder holster. Mercedes is still yelling, but you can’t parse the words.

You hear a gunshot over the fire and the rushing in your own ears, Kaz drops your head back onto the ground with a _thunk,_ and you listen to his clothes move. His arm hooks back around underneath you and the sudden movement pitches you into unconsciousness without any warning. 

Returning with another motion, you can feel Kaz struggling to get you upright. There’s a lot of rubble and the most uncomfortable pieces seem to be underneath you. There’s also the shape of a body nearby, and time moves so slowly that you can eventually identify it as Mercedes. A big knife is embedded in the front of his forehead and a gun is still in his hand. 

There’s a strange metallic sound and you see Kaz’s crutch tossed away in disgust, bent at an unusual angle. His voice is very close to you, rough with effort. “Jesus, Moth, I can’t carry you— _the earth is flat._ Get up. You have to get up.”

Your whole body gasps and twists at once outside of your control, struggling to get over onto your hands and knees. If you can crawl, you can get up. You can move, and you have to move. There is no question about if you can, it is when, and it has to be now. You don’t feel the pain, you don’t feel Kaz supporting you as much as he can without falling himself, you don’t smell the smoke or the blood. You step in something and keep going forward, not seeing. Stairs bark your shins and you fall again, the sensation of something inside you jarred horribly by the impact, and Kaz is swearing thickly, dragging at your arm and shoulders and clothes to _get up, I’m sorry, I had to, we have to get inside,_ and you keep crawling. 

You crawl and drag and stumble inside the house and keep going until your forehead presses into a wall and Kaz drags you back from it, lowering you to the floor and curling himself around you. Your body returns to you slowly and brings a terrible pain with it, and your heart is going so hard and fast it might burst. “How-- how did--?” 

“Ocelot.” Kaz spits it out it like a curse, his breath hot on your neck. You can see his good hand curling into a fist, knuckles white in the darkness. “Part of your training was a trigger phrase, for emergencies, but I didn’t—I didn’t think—”

You want to tell him it’s alright, although it isn’t. The pain you’re in is rapidly overwhelming you, and if any sound makes it out of your mouth between panting, it could only be a scream. Your hand reaches up and anchors in Kaz’s sweaty hair, dragging him down to rest his face against your neck, your chest. _It’s alright, Commander._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s the final count down! Next chapter is the last chapter for this fic. Thank you so much for your patience and continued support, it means the world to me!


	8. Day Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that giving myself another week to make edits was only going to stress me out more, so here we are! The last chapter and this one were always meant to be one thing combined together anyway, in my heart. In any case, we made it! It’s the final chapter. No specific warnings for this chapter other than what’s already been tagged!

Falling into unconsciousness again wasn’t something you remembered doing, but you wake up from it all the same. Slowly, and reluctantly. Your body wants you to stop trying, and that puts a new icicle of fear into you. 

Kaz’s arm is across your chest and he’s behind you, sitting up against the wall and holding you steady. You can still smell smoke, burning foliage, but not the way a burning building smells. Might be a problem, but not a whole lot exists outside of this one, dark room. Outside the window you can see the initial colors of sunrise. 

“Commander Miller?” You croak, missing a few vowels here and there. Your throat feels dry and raw all at once. 

He pats your shoulder, with audible relief in his voice. “Present and accounted for.”

“Intact?”

“Bad news. I’m missing an arm and a leg.”

You push out a searing hot breath in place of a laugh and regret it, constellations of sharp pains dotting your side and back deeply enough to make you gasp reflexively-- then again, finding that inhaling hurts, but exhaling sets you on fire. 

“Slow down, you’re not in the best shape right now.”

But he’s safe, so you’re fine. It’s probably better than it feels. There had been someone else, though-- “Marti…” You have to take a running jump at it. “Martinique?” 

He’s quiet for too long. “She didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”

The disbelief sits in your stomach like a hot stone. “No.”

“The way the trap was rigged, she took most of it.” He says it hollowly. “But the last thing she saw was her brother. That’s not so bad, is it?” Your brain supplies you with two disconnected images of the thread at her calf and the knife in her brother’s forehead. It feels like a nightmare.

“Bullshit--” You struggle weakly, grabbing at his arm with both hands, fingers refusing to curl with any strength. “Bullshit, she was _alive--_ I was there--!”

“You were. You did a good job.”

“She was a _kid_ \--”

“Yeah. She was a kid.” He sounds so-- so soft and gentle about it that it makes you angry, it makes you kick out with your heels and yell wordlessly— what’s the _point,_ what was the _point_ of her dying, you’d dragged her through all this, she’d made it so far— _don’t just accept it, Miller, get angry, be angry at me, something, anything--_

“I know. I _know,_ Moth.” He holds you so tightly that it hurts, but the alternative is worse. You want him to crush you, put you out of your misery, but there’s a deep shaking underneath you that’s coming from him.

The greedy thought sparks something instinctive in you that wants to survive. If Kaz still needs you for something, you can’t die. The mission. The fire alights in you: the mission isn’t over until he’s home, you have to survive. If Cipher bursts through the door you might not be able to move unless he uses the trigger phrase again, but you can die defending him. You just have to live until then. 

Your temper is stealing your breath and you want to say _let me go, I can keep going, I can get up, I have to get up if I want to get away from this,_ but there’s not enough air for words and breathing at the same time. Your whole body feels tight with pain and out of control, and you have to shut your eyes. 

When they open, the sun has risen and moved across the wall to somewhere new and nothing you can feel is responding, just hurting. You can taste blood. 

You make a noise and try to lift a hand to do something, anything, but it’s very heavy and it hurts. Somehow Kaz knows you’re awake and immediately goes to squeeze your shoulder bracingly. “Back with me? It’s boring here without you.”

“Was there--?” You want to gesture, but you don’t know what would communicate it. Even the word takes a moment to surface. “A phone?”

“Yeah. There’s a chopper incoming, just for us. It’ll be here soon, but I need you to hold on until then,” he says, with the universal cadence of soothing a badly injured person. “Moth?”

You can’t stop wheezing. The pain across your chest and side has gone from hot to cold. The Ocelot inside you saying _Well, you can’t stop sweating and you’ve lost a lot of blood, judging by that pretty red you’re wearing. Looks an awful lot like shock, doesn’t it?_

Your teeth chatter as you will Ocelot to shut up, leave you alone-- if it hadn’t been for him, you wouldn’t be here, Martinique wouldn’t be dead-- _Oh, but she would be. You just prolonged it, don’t get your wires crossed about that. You scared her. You never apologized. You brought her here._

Kaz struggles with you briefly as you try and kick away from that thought with energy you shouldn’t have left, like some kind of temper tantrum. It’s undignified. All the training you’d gone through and you’d never considered how much dying might really, truly hurt. How badly losing a single, stupid civilian would hurt. 

“I mean it, Moth, settle down,” Kaz snaps, sounding rattled by your sudden movement. “Talk to me. Tell me something.”

“There’s blood… on your clothes.”

“It’s all yours, so I’ll take it out of your pay. How’s that sound?”

Your breathing hitches, and Kaz wedges your face against his neck, chin digging into the top of your head. He smells like sweat and cologne, and you feel his unhappy laugh as much as hear it. “God, I’ve really lost my touch. I used to be a charmer, if you can believe it. And I’ve been so shitty to you this whole trip.”

His body shifts under your increasingly limp weight as he digs through one of his pockets. “Stay awake, Moth. I’ve got something that’ll piss you off.”

“I took this out of your suitcase.” Kaz teases, with a hint of desperation. “I haven’t been a field operative in a long time. I was nervous, meeting Koala without you, so I took this. For good luck-- like the Boss was with me, you know?”

You smell it before you see it, that unmistakable sweet and pungent scent like black licorice. The phantom cigar requisitions had put into your luggage as a joke or some kind of over-preparedness. It does remind you of the Boss, and you feel a faint rush of comfort. 

“Hold this.” Kaz holds it out for you and your hand closes around the cigar weakly, resting on your chest. Your fingers go slack before long and you watch it happen with a detached interest. 

There’s the noise of him fussing with a lighter to the side before he takes the cigar from you, and you shut your eyes momentarily. They refuse to open again, even when Kaz has to adjust how you lean against him for a different angle. 

“Kaz?” Your own voice sounds thick and far off.

“I’ve got you, I’m here.”

“What’s…?” 

“Time will pass a little faster this way. You’ll be home before you know it.” 

The wormwood smell is stronger than ever, close and hot to your face. Smoke trails over your face and Kaz’s touch on your mouth is very light. Gentle. “Open up for me.”

You can still open your mouth and you do, Kaz easing your jaw the rest of the way with his own mouth against yours, hot breath and smoke flooding your mouth with a tingle of unfamiliar chemicals. It hits you like a ton of bricks and you can _feel_ the back of your skull drop out, the constant background radiation of pain starting to numb. Wormwood is all you can smell and taste, and there seems to be no bottom to the depth of it. 

Kaz is very quiet and so close, voice sliding over your face like more smoke. Whatever he says glides right past you and you couldn’t hope to catch it, but you hope it’s nice. His nose bumps yours, his lips move against the corner of your mouth and you press back, desperate for anything solid. 

He presses back with praising words and more desperation, not afraid to squeeze your chest where it isn’t broken, to slide his face against yours and breathe smoke in the spaces left. 

 

Your eyes open with the sensation that you’d never opened them before in your life. Like rusty shutters. It’s so bright. Birdsong. 

It’s too bright, so you keep your eyes shut. The faint brush of air coming in through a window carries the smell of sea salt, but not the beach. Deep sea salt. No birdcalls on the wind like you’d thought, just the beep of a heart monitor. 

You force yourself to open your eyes and make sure you’re not dreaming, and the infirmary room surfaces out of the blur eventually. The window is almost blinding but you can see a single construction crane outside of it. 

It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen in your life, and you dry heave sobs until the monitor reacts and a doctor shows up. 

 

Harrier is the first one to visit, and makes a big show of smearing aloe over one of your healing burns, fussing over your pillows and then settling down to tell you all about everything you’d missed while you were gone. 

Firstly—the aloe in the hedgehog enclosure was safe and now, irritatingly, sanctioned by the Animal Conservation staff. He’d had to fight tooth and nail to have it legitimized and now had read every book in the library concerning both aloe plants and hedgehogs to back his proposal, and you almost start crying again at how glad you are to be home, so he rushes over the rest of it. 

There have been rumors about some kind of new sports platform or something, which is frivolous and not entirely out of the question. The arctic camo project is officially finished and everyone is arguing about what’s next, most bets going to tiger print. There’s an internal race at R&D to engineer a toy DD can’t chew through, as he seems to be taking the loss of his frisbee extremely hard. Ocelot wore a new scarf one day but it vanished the next, everyone suspects it’s a psy ops fake out. 

The mention of Ocelot brings into sharp relief your circumstances, and Harrier seems to sense this and pats your hand. _Everybody_ knows you got blown up, it’s very much the talk of the town. Lots of speculations as to how, but the leading theory is you threw yourself in front of Miller to save his life while under fire. 

You don’t correct him—it’s a bit more glamorous than the truth, and you don’t want to retell the story before Ocelot talks to you about it. No chances for you to misremember if you talk to him.

Harrier visits now and again, but your recovery is quiet. A lot of it’s just sleeping and your doctor, Canary, telling you afterwards how you slept through Commander Miller or the Boss coming by to visit. You suspect this is something he tells everyone in the med bay to make them feel better, but regardless, a big bouquet of wildflowers from the Animal platform shows up one day with a note. 

_“ Good Job – BB ”_

“He’s very into that, lately,” Canary muses. “Sending bouquets. It’s classy, right? Old fashioned.”

You arrange the flowers on your chest and your pillow and fall asleep among them, dreaming of walking and running and eating solid food. 

 

Miller finally shows up at the time you’d least like him to, while Canary is helping you back into bed. Showers are doable these days, but you have to sit down and there’s always a struggle to get back up. He stands in the doorway and watches Canary help you, supporting your free arm as your other uses your IV as a crutch. 

You’ve heard the list of injuries before and they mostly seem unreal to you, apart from the stiff scars and sutures you can feel with your fingers. Shrapnel, concussion, broken bones, all kinds of stuff, but you lived. And you’d be back in fighting form one day. _If the Boss can do it,_ Canary is fond of saying, _so can you._

Sensing it would embarrass you, Canary tries to tuck you into bed and you swat him away. Miller nods at him as he passes by. 

Laying back against the pillows, you try not to seem winded, but Miller’s in no rush. He takes a seat beside your bed and embarrassingly, all the two of you can do is look. 

At the very least, he looks good. All wrapped up in his layers again, buttons polished, unshaven as usual. You’d almost forgotten how much the greatcoat solidifies him into one uniform pillar of authority. And he doesn’t seem mad at you, which is a great bonus. 

“Commander.” You smile, but it doesn’t reach your core. You’d been dreading this, the fear running deep like cold, slow water. 

“Moth. How’s recovery going?” He keeps his hand on his cane, like he might leave at any minute. 

“It’s killing me, sir.” He laughs, short and mostly humorless. If anybody knows the truth of how boring it is, it’s him. His smile rests on you only briefly, before he goes quiet again. 

You’d thought about what you’d say to him when you saw him so much, but none of it seems right. It leaves you with a bunch of half-formed thoughts and feelings to try to piece back together into a conversation. “Commander Miller. I’m sorry. At the end there, I… I should’ve been more careful. I was so angry and upset with Koala, I wasn’t thinking--”

“What was there to think about? I told you in as many words to do it, you did the right thing for us. He got what was coming to him.” Miller seems defensive on your behalf, and you appreciate it. He softens for a moment, and your stomach rolls over. “I’m sorry about Martinique.”

“Was it a trap Koala left?” Your hands crimp and wring the hospital bed’s sheets—you’d been replaying everything you could still remember endlessly, trying to figure out what you could’ve done differently to avoid what happened. “I—I’ve been thinking about it a lot, but I just… I don’t understand.”

He seems to weigh the options of telling you or avoiding it, but you know he won’t hold the closure out of your reach, even if it hurts. “I can’t say for sure whether Koala set it up before he left, but we did some research afterwards. Koala and his PF agreed to kill Martinique… for Mercedes. He couldn’t stand to share the family fortune, maybe.” The last part comes out bitter.

“Even though they were twins?”

“Families are complex. Sometimes it’s better to choose your own.” He shifts his weight around. “Do you want the records? There’s not much. It was a simple wetwork job that we stepped into on accident, nothing that looks like it was anything other than what it was.”

You can’t bring yourself to shrug yet, to file it alongside every other solider’s hurt that has to be processed through jokes. “She wasn’t the first and she won’t be the last.”

Miller frowns. “Do you want to talk about that thing you just said?”

“No.” He has his secrets, you’ll keep yours. It’s easy to switch subjects, knowing he won’t pursue it. “Thanks for saving my life.”

“Thanks for doing your job,” he snorts, suddenly embarrassed. You both look elsewhere in the room to distract yourselves, before he clears his throat. “And thank you for trying to make it a nice trip. It wasn’t too bad.”

“You got _kidnapped.”_

“Would’ve been boring otherwise.”

“Miller?” You had sworn up and down that no matter what happened, you wouldn’t cry. Your eyes start to fill with tears despite it, and you drop all your words in a heap trying to hold them back. “I mean-- Commander-- but… I don’t mean that, I mean—not Miller, but—” 

He leans forward in concern, cane set aside and his hand resting lightly on yours. “Hey, are you in pain? What’s wrong?”

“Was all of it just the mission?” You can hardly see him for the tears. “When it’s just us, can I…?” 

“Can you what?” he asks, tightly. Like he’s a wound up spring. Seeing him here, being home, contextualized, you feel so stupid. This is Commander Miller, a survivor and a leader and absolutely devoted to vengeance against Cipher, everyone knows that, everyone knows him. In that way he belongs to everyone, to all of Mother Base, not just you.

 _Don’t ask. Don’t make him turn you down._ But didn’t he also eat dinner with you? Haven’t you walked on the beach? Didn’t he save your life? It was the mission. It was just the mission. Your chest feels too small but nothing can properly hurt with the morphine still in your system. Your hands clench weakly at the bedsheets. “Can I still call you Kaz?”

His chair scrapes on the floor underneath a _god, yes, of course, moth,_ as he closes the very short distance very fast, mouth against yours before his hand curls up and against the curve of your skull. He tastes like Mother Base’s coffee and his stubble drags against your face, and the kiss lasts too long and not long enough at all. Your chest manages to ache as you pull away, mostly from breathlessness. Just a little from longing. 

When he pulls away, his fingers tangle briefly in your hair, and he has to adjust the set of his shades. It’s terribly charming whether he means it to be or not, and you kick yourself for not jumping his bones in that huge hotel bed.

You reach up and drag the tail of his red tie out of his vest, pulling gently to bring him back into your orbit. Kaz goes easily, steadying his balance with a hand braced against your bed, and you lean up to trail your mouth up his neck and over his jaw. He squirms pleasantly. “You’re not done with me yet, are you, Commander?”

“We’ve still got a day of vacation left, whenever we want it,” he says, low and a little bit hoarse. You could live on the tension in his voice like that for days. “But for now, just focus on getting better.” 

You aren’t ready to let go of his tie, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Stretching up, you can rest your forehead against his. “Sorry I taste like hospital.”

“I don’t _care,_ Moth,” He scoffs, and you feel it against your lips. You’re tempted to chase after another kiss, but you don’t want to rush him. Everything about this feels like he’s thawing, and you want him to enjoy it. Like he can hear your thoughts, Kaz clears his throat. “Move over.”

It’s the fastest you’ve moved since you woke up at home, and Kaz gives you a look like he’s noticed. You can’t care, you can’t even be embarrassed by how quickly you anchor yourself to his side as he settles into place. He stiffens as you press up to his side where his arm isn’t there to get in your way, but you ignore it. If he has a problem, he’ll tell you. 

And he does, and you smile. “I hate hospital beds. I can’t stay for long, either, Ocelot ran this place into the ground while I was gone.” Kaz grouses as you rest your head on his chest, the weatherproof fabric of his coat drags against your cheek. 

“Tell me about it.”

“Materials processing is behind almost _eleven percent,_ an FOB is doing repairs on their animal conservation platform and the whole place is filled with goats, the Boss won’t tell me the last time he showered… R &D is making _dog toys_ for some reason…” 

You murmur _dog toys_ in agreement and Kaz starts talking about rubber vulcanization development costs, so you get comfortable and close your eyes. If you defocus, you can hear his heartbeat under all those layers, and how it eventually slows to something peaceful as he acclimates to your body so close to his. 

The rise and fall of his chest feels like the ocean surrounding the base, a constant shifting. You can float there, unafraid of sinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t thank you all so much for your support for this fic—you’ve been super patient and so encouraging, it’s made working on this a real joy! I’m excited to finish this project and move on to the next one, and I hope you’ll join me there too! 
> 
> If you have questions or just want to hang out/say hi/exist in the same online social spaces, I'm here in the comments or my tumblr is coyotefather.tumblr.com and I’m always happy to talk to folks! 
> 
> Thank you again, from the bottom of my heart!


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